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Fathers and Other Strangers
Karen Templeton
Jenna Stanton had raised her niece, Blair, from birth, with nary a clue as to who the child's father was.Until now - when the piece of paper in her hand led her to the inexplicably attractive grouchy ex-cop Hank Logan. How could she tell Hank that her daughter was his? And more important, should she? The former detective in him told Hank that the pretty widow and the smart-mouth kid were in town for more than just the local scenery.But to say he was floored to find out the truth wasn't even close. Because in Blair and Jenna he was offered a chance to assume the two roles in life he'd sworn he would never take on. Father. And husband.



“Why shouldn’t I keep the dog?” Hank asked.
“Maybe it’s time I had something else to talk to at night besides myself, y’know?”
His words echoed painfully in her own sparsely furnished heart as they pulled up in front of the cottage.
Slouched in his seat, his right hand still griping the steering wheel, Hank looked at her. “I might prefer to keep to myself most of the time, Miss Stanton, but I’m not an ogre.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m sorry if I gave you that impression.”
After a moment, she nodded, then ran up the porch steps to the relative safety of the cottage, away from the yearning in those dark eyes, a yearning she doubted he even knew was there. But once back inside, as she stood at the front window, she knew there was no reason not to tell Hank Logan he had a daughter.
Now all she had to do was figure out how.
Dear Reader,
Welcome to another fabulous month of the most exciting romance reading around. And what better way to begin than with a new TALL, DARK & DANGEROUS novel from New York Times bestselling author Suzanne Brockmann? Night Watch has it all: an irresistible U.S. Navy SEAL hero, intrigue and danger, and—of course—passionate romance. Grab this one fast, because it’s going to fly off the shelves.
Don’t stop at just one, however. Not when you’ve got choices like Fathers and Other Strangers, reader favorite Karen Templeton’s newest of THE MEN OF MAYES COUNTY. Or how about Dead Calm, the long-awaited new novel from multiple-award-winner Lindsay Longford? Not enough good news for you? Then check out new star Brenda Harlen’s Some Kind of Hero, or Night Talk, from the always-popular Rebecca Daniels. Finally, try Trust No One, the debut novel from our newest find, Barbara Phinney.
And, of course, we’ll be back next month with more pulse-pounding romances, so be sure to join us then. Meanwhile…enjoy!


Leslie J. Wainger
Executive Editor

Fathers and Other Strangers
Karen Templeton



KAREN TEMPLETON,
a Waldenbooks bestselling author and RITA
Award nominee, is the mother of five sons and living proof that romance and dirty diapers are not mutually exclusive terms. An Easterner transplanted to Albuquerque, New Mexico, she spends far too much time trying to coax her garden to yield roses and produce something resembling a lawn, all the while fantasizing about a weekend alone with her husband. Or at least an uninterrupted conversation.
She loves to hear from readers, who may reach her by writing c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001 New York, NY 10279, or online at www.karentempleton.com.
To all my online buds at AOL and eHarlequin, who are always there, even at three in the morning, for solace, support and frequently a damn good laugh.
Thanks for being the best “sisters” in the world.
To Jack and the boys, smooches for understanding why sometimes I really prefer when you’re all somewhere else.
And to Gail C., as always.

Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Lynda Sandoval Cooper, who helped me see things from a cop’s perspective.

Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16

Chapter 1
“Ewww…why are we stopping here?”
Jenna Stanton cut the engine to her Corolla, then glanced over at the sour-faced thirteen-year-old girl she loved with all her heart. Usually. Ignoring the flood of terror now threatening to expel the contents of her stomach, Jenna forced a smile, wincing when her lower lip cracked. From behind her seat, Meringue let out a plaintive mew, protesting her incarceration in her carrier.
“This is the place I told you about,” Jenna said, still gripping the steering wheel. “Where we’re going to spend the month.”
Blair shoved a tangled strand of copper-red hair behind one recently-pierced ear and crooked her neck to get a better look at the Double Arrow Guest Lodge. “It’s a motel,” she said, her words laced with a disgust usually reserved for fried liver and Disney movies.
“We’re not staying in this part. There are cottages down by the lake.”
That got a “yeah, right” look which immediately settled into a scowl. Not that Jenna blamed her; from this angle, the Double Arrow looked like any other two-bit motel—single story, beige stucco, utilitarian doors and windows. Maybe twelve units that Jenna could see, only three with cars parked out front. The cottages she’d have to take on faith, since they weren’t visible from here.
Still, the place wasn’t quite as puke-worthy as her niece would have the world believe. Quivering shadows from dozens of ashes and cottonwoods softened the stark, unimaginative architecture, caressed the occasional plot of perfectly mowed grass and tubs of vibrant annuals. The air was still and hot, yes, but the silence was thick and sweet and luscious, punctuated only by the occasional brilliant trill of some bird or other. From what little Jenna had seen, Haven, Oklahoma was already living up to its name. On the surface, at least.
“It’s actually very pretty, don’t you think?”
“It’s boring.”
Jenna squelched her sigh, as well as the urge to squirm from the perspiration seeping through her bra. “Oh, Blair…you’d say any place with a population of less than a million looked boring.”
Resentful blue eyes zinged to Jenna’s as Blair hooked her thin arms across a still-flat chest. She’d been a pretty baby—not to mention a cheerful one—but the onset of adolescence was not being kind, either physically or emotionally. Her hair was too fine, her legs too long, her teeth held prisoner by several thousand dollars’ worth of intricate engineering. And the poor child had more freckles than there were lobbyists on Capitol Hill.
“I don’t get it,” Blair said, not quite whining but close enough to set Jenna’s teeth on edge. “You always set your books in D.C. Always. Now you have to set one in Oklahoma?”
This would make…let’s see…at least the fiftieth time they’d had this conversation since March, when Jenna had realized exactly how limited her options were. Plucking at her damp T-shirt—the car’s air conditioner had given out around Nashville—she tried another smile. “I told you. I was getting burned out. I needed a change—”
“What am I supposed to do for a whole month while you write for ten hours a day?” Tears glistened in Blair’s eyes, and Jenna’s heart cracked. Guilt had practically eaten a hole in Jenna’s heart already that she couldn’t tell her niece the truth. Not yet, anyway. “I don’t know anybody here! I mean, God, why didn’t you send me to camp or something?”
Jenna swiped a hand through her own wind-tangled mop, still smelling slightly of the hair-coloring chemicals from her do-it-yourself job the day before. “One, you hate camp. And two, I told you, sweetie—I’m not planning on doing much actual writing. Just going over the galleys for my December book, maybe some preliminary scribbles for this new one, but that’s about it. This is mostly a research trip. So we’ll do lots of sightseeing, maybe some camping. You’ve always wanted to do that.”
“Like you know anything about camping.”
“Do you, smartypants?”
“No.”
“Well, then, I suppose we can both learn.”
Silence vibrated between them for a second or two until, in a flurry of jabbing elbows, Blair unhooked the seatbelt, fumbled with the door handle for a moment then shoved open the door. “I gotta pee,” she announced, bolting from the car. The little pink pom-poms on the heels of her tennis socks wobbled frantically as she tromped toward the sign that said Office.
Jenna finally gave in to the sigh that had been building like a storm cloud for the past ten minutes, then grabbed her purse from under her seat and followed suit, tugging at the seat of her cargo shorts. It wasn’t fair to Blair, dragging her out here like this. And guilt that she couldn’t tell her niece the truth had practically eaten a hole in Jenna’s heart. She couldn’t tell her the truth yet, anyway. If things didn’t work out, maybe not ever. But all she could do was take this one step at a time and hope for the best.
Her sandals crunched the sandy dirt as she followed her niece toward the office, willing saliva back into her mouth. Thank God there’d been at least a barebones Web site for the place. Otherwise, she would have had a devil of a time explaining how she’d just happened to stumble across the Double Arrow, located on the outskirts of a town too small to show up on most maps to begin with.
She’d only spoken to Hank Logan once, when she called and asked about renting one of his cottages for the month. His voice was burned into her memory—low, edgy and heavily seasoned with sarcasm. A voice completely at odds with the image of a man who’d buy a run-down motel and—according to the information she had—single-handedly restore it, shingle by shingle.
A voice completely at odds with neatly trimmed grass and tubs of cheerful petunias and marigolds.
“Something I can do for you?”
Yeah. That voice.
Blair whipped around first, her hand poised to knock on the office door. But Jenna froze, watching her niece’s face, even though Blair wouldn’t have a clue who she might be looking at. Conversely, while Blair looked nothing like Jenna’s sister Sandy, if she looked anything like Hank—if he could see something in her niece’s face that he recognized—Jenna was screwed. Then again, if he didn’t, this whole outrageous scheme of hers might be a total waste of time. A name in a diary, a few coincidences, was all she had. What she didn’t have was proof.
Between the chronic shyness she’d never completely overcome and the particulars of this situation, Jenna’s stomach once again threatened mutiny as she forced herself to turn around.
The good news was, Blair looked nothing like Hank Logan.
The bad news was, Blair looked nothing like Hank Logan.
“Is there a bathroom I can use?” her niece asked, her high-pitched voice knifing through Jenna’s pounding heartbeat.
“Right through that door and to your right. Go ahead, it’s unlocked.”
Then eyes cryptic as midnight focused on Jenna, and her stomach turned inside out.

It took less than a second for Hank to size the woman up as the one who’d called from D.C. a few weeks back. Not that her pale-green T-shirt and khaki shorts were fancy or anything, but something about her—her stance, the way she’d shoved her sunglasses on top of her head to hold back her messed-up blond hair, her prissy little sandals—just told him she was.
He shrugged off the wooden ladder biting into his shoulder to rest it against the trunk of a nearby cottonwood, then grabbed his black T-shirt from the rung where he’d slung it earlier. He used it to make a half-assed attempt at wiping the dust and sweat off his face, then yanked it on over his head, trying to remember the last time it’d rained.
Lord, she was staring at him like she’d never seen a man’s chest before. Which he might have found amusing, once upon a time. Now he just found it annoying. But then, he found most things about women annoying these days.
Then he remembered his manners and said, “You Jenna Stanton?” Hank was not a man inclined to use more words than necessary.
She nodded, pale-blue eyes wary in a face free of any makeup that he could tell, her wide mouth set in a no-nonsense expression that matched what he remembered about her voice. He pegged her to be about his age, pushing forty, maybe a little older. The breeze blew her straight, light hair into her face; she shoved it back. She looked hot.
He almost smiled at the words’ double meaning.
She looked kinda scared, too. Like maybe she was afraid of him. Well, hell, he’d be afraid of him, too, if he saw himself for the first time. Bad enough his parents’ first successful attempt at procreation had resulted in a face that was all angles and jutting bones without Hank’s embellishing their handiwork with a twice-broken nose, an effect only intensified by a head of ornery black hair, a throwback to some Native American ancestor or other. He’d been told he could look mean without even trying, which had worked in his favor when he’d been a cop. Now it just kept folks from messing in his business, which was fine with him. And if they were tempted, all he had to do was add a scowl to the mix, and that pretty much settled the issue.
“I take it you’re Mr. Logan?” she said, finally.
“You got it.”
The woman looked as if she might step closer, then seemed to think better of it. “I’m Jenna Stanton. I spoke to you on the phone a few weeks ago? About renting a cottage?”
“Yeah. I figured that’s who you were.”
“Oh. Well, um, I know we’re a little early, but I was wondering if our cottage is ready?”
Hank almost grinned at that, too. He picked up the ladder, walked past her to thunk it against the outside office wall. “Well, ma’am, this is your lucky day. The previous occupants checked out ahead of schedule.”
“So…the cottages are more popular than the single units?”
Annoyance started to burn, right in the middle of his gut, only half because he’d wasted a perfectly good sarcastic comment. “It’s early yet. Things’ll pick up in a couple weeks. So, you ready for me to show you to your cottage or what?”
She was giving him of one those figuring-out looks that women were so good at and that Hank hated with a passion. She crammed her hands into her shorts pockets, which is when Hank decided she had pretty nice legs. For a woman her age. “I forgot to ask when I spoke with you before—what are the cooking facilities like?”
Hank felt his brows take a dive. “Julia Child probably wouldn’t wet her pants over them, but long as you don’t mind bein’ creative, I’m sure you’ll get by okay. And by the way, there’s no air-conditioning in the cottages, ’cause the old units weren’t any good and I haven’t gotten around to replacing ’em yet. All the rooms have ceiling fans, though.”
Her mouth twisted. “You sound as if you’re daring me to stay.”
“Nope. Just stating facts.”
“I see. Well, Mr. Logan—” she plucked her sunglasses off her head, only to stick them right back up there “—I am hot, have just enough of a headache to be considered dangerous and have spent the last two days on the road with a crabby teenager who’s convinced she’s just been consigned to hell. As long as there’s indoor plumbing, the mattresses don’t look like flophouse rejects and I don’t have to share the place with various and sundry critters, I’ll be a happy camper.”
Hell, he could practically see her pulse ramming in her throat from here. Maybe her words sounded tough, but her eyes—heavy-lidded, deep-set under naturally arched brows—told a whole other story. Too bad he had no idea what that story was. Like most men, Hank was totally clueless when it came to reading women’s minds. However, his cop instincts were rattling around in his brain, telling him that something seemed funny about this. And it was going to bug him to death until he figured out what.
“Well,” he said, scratching his unshaven chin and playing the hayseed to the hilt, “the mattresses are all new, the plumbing’s old but it usually works, and if you see any wildlife inside, I’ll be happy to send somebody up to shoot it for you. How’s that?”
She paled. “I don’t want to kill anything. I just want to be sure it all stays outside, where it belongs.”
Hank hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “Well, honey—” he used the endearment deliberately, figuring it would set her off, which wasn’t something he normally did but something about this one just begged for it “—I hate to break it to you, but where you’ve got country, you’ve got critters. And since they were here first, they don’t have too many qualms about wandering on inside a place if the mood strikes. The four-legged ones’ll generally run back out if you make enough noise, and the six- or eight-legged ones you can just squish. So, that was a two-bedroom you wanted, right?”
He stepped into the office, a wood-paneled affair boasting a counter with a computer on it, a hookboard with the keys, a phone, and a couple of slightly beat-up chairs he’d gotten off Curly Mason after his wife left him and he couldn’t bear to look at her stuff anymore. Oh, and some photos of the area the former owners had put up about a million years ago which Hank hadn’t gotten around to taking down. The kid, he saw, was studying them with a tight frown wrinkling her forehead. Red-headed and peppered with freckles, she was going to be taller than her mama, he imagined, who was taller than average to begin with.
He heard Jenna Stanton’s footsteps behind him. Waited for a reaction that didn’t happen. Except, when she spoke, her tone had gone all tight-assed.
“Yes, a two-bedroom,” she said, then added, “and I forgot something else. I need a phone jack for my Internet connection.”
The key already in his hand, Hank made a face, then turned around and exchanged that key for another. See, that’s what was bugging him. If she was so damn picky, why hadn’t she asked about all this earlier? And why would a woman like her want to stay way the hell out here in the middle of nowhere, anyway? Especially with a teenager who was probably gonna be nothing but a pain in the can the whole time they were here. Just didn’t add up.
“There’s a jack in this one,” he said, holding up the key. Good thing he’d had Cherise clean out more than one cabin. “Former owners used to live there, so it’s got more outlets, too. Although, if you don’t mind my asking, what kind of operation you planning on running while you’re here?”
The girl moved on to the next set of pictures, as though she was trying to pretend none of this was going on.
“No operation,” the woman said with a tight-lipped smile. “I’m a writer. I’m here…doing research for my next book.”
“Huh,” Hank said, not missing the kid’s snort in response. “Okay, you can sign right—” he turned the register around and handed her a pen “—here.”
She signed left-handed. A left hand adorned with a wide gold wedding band and a knock-your-socks off engagement ring. An observation that provoked more brain-rattling, even as Hank told his brain to go lie down and be quiet, already.
He turned the register around. Her handwriting was strong, the letters uneven but legible. “Will…Mr. Stanton be joining you?”
“No.”
He looked up, but she hadn’t. “Credit card?”
“Oh. Of course.” She switched the small leather purse sitting on her hip around and up onto the counter, dug out her wallet and a credit card. Her nails were short; she didn’t wear any perfume that he could tell, although whatever she used in her hair was smelling up the whole office. From the heat, he supposed. He swiped a blank receipt, then handed her back the card.
“And…what do you do with the receipt?” she asked.
“Goes into the safe until you check out. Nobody can get to it except me. You can drive on around to the cottage—yours is the second one you’ll come to, with the blue porch.” He hesitated. “You need any help unloading the car?”
For a second or two, that wary gaze—now blended with a touch of pissed-offedness—tangled with his. “No,” she said. “We can handle it.” Then she straightened her shoulders and turned to the girl. “Blair, sweetie? You ready?” Obviously expecting the gal to follow, Jenna Stanton pivoted on her fancy little shoe and headed back outside.
“Yeah, ready to barf,” the girl muttered as she slowly trudged after.

Jenna stood on the cottage’s front porch, soaking in the peaceful view, giving herself a chance to get both her breath and her bearings. The lake, maybe fifty yards away, was more of a large pond, but it sparkled prettily in the sunshine, and there was a dock jutting out from the shore, so maybe there was swimming. Or wading. Something. A dense grove of trees bordered the far shore, a thousand shades of lush green back-dropped by the blurred blues and purples of the Ozark foothills in the distance. It was hot, and the mosquitoes had major attitude, but God, it was beautiful.
She inhaled as deeply as she could, letting her breath out slowly as she leaned against a support post, willing her neck muscles to unknot.
Well. About the best Jenna could say of her first encounter with Hank Logan was that she’d gotten through it relatively unscathed. Relatively being a, well, relative term. Criminy, she wouldn’t be surprised if her hair was standing on end. Damned if she could define her reaction, though. Oh, she could come up with a bunch of words, they just didn’t fit together in any sort of logical pattern. Except for one thing: based strictly upon her first impression, Hank Logan was only about a millimeter above her sister Sandy’s usual taste in men. He was scruffy—it was everything Jenna could do not to ask when he was planning to shave—he was close enough to rude to make the finals, and he clearly didn’t have a shred of affinity for children, if his completely ignoring Blair was any indication.
And damned if he hadn’t set her hormones to blaring like a city full of drunken revelers on Mardi Gras.
Geez Louise, she thought as she trekked down the porch steps to get her last bag, she really had been living in a cave these past three years, hadn’t she? Since when did she lust after men who looked as though they lived in one?
Since when did she lust, period?
Knowing what she did about Hank Logan’s recent past, she supposed she’d have to make allowances. To a point. After all, it wasn’t much of a stretch to assume his brusque demeanor masked a whole gamut of emotions he probably hadn’t yet handled. Maybe couldn’t handle, given both his gender and his former occupation. Still, there was no way she was going to let any of that—or her totally off-the-wall reaction—cloud her judgment.
Jenna returned to the cottage, thunking the bag in the middle of the worn but clean braided rug that took up most of the scuffed wooden floor in the sitting area. Okay, so the place was no five-star hotel. No surprise there. But then, she hadn’t stayed in one of those since she was a child. Phil’s income from his paintings had been far too spotty to allow for such things. And even though her last three or four Stella Moon mysteries had done well, all those years of trying to build a readership—after nearly a decade of trying to convince some publisher, somewhere, to take a chance on her writing—had left her so far in debt for so long, she still hadn’t gotten used to the idea of having money in the bank.
Jenna crossed to the nearest window, keeping an eye out for furry or scaly uninvited guests. So far, so good. She pushed aside the wooden bi-fold shutters and cranked open the window, noting that the screening was new, the windowsill freshly painted. Unfortunately, the outside air seemed totally disinterested in venturing inside, making her even more grateful for the protective canopy of trees shading the lot.
She made a quick check of the bedrooms, which were small but scrupulously clean, simply but adequately furnished. And yes, the mattresses—she yanked back the bedding to check—did indeed appear to be new. The pillows were synthetic, however. And Blair had given her grief for bringing their own goosedown ones. Hah!
Basking in her own smugness as she fanned herself in the sweltering heat, Jenna returned to the living area where she opened more windows, pausing only to flip the switch to the large ceiling fan and frown at the back of her niece’s head. Or at least, what she could see peering over the arm of the Mission-style sofa hunkered against one paneled wall. As usual, Blair was plugged into her Discman, Her Royal Felinity draped across her stomach. Jenna walked over, unplugged one ear: the Hottie du Jour—Jenna no longer even tried to keep up with who was in and who wasn’t—held forth tinnily from the earpiece. A purring Meringue yawned, then disinterestedly batted at the dangling cord.
“Hey—which room do you want?”
Blair made a face. Shrugged. Grabbed the earpiece from Jenna and rammed it back into place.
Reminding herself that this was no time to lose her patience, Jenna left Blair to her sulk and cranked open the next window, finally letting in some air. Hallelujah. Thus fortified, she returned to her niece and repeated the unplugging procedure. “Well, why don’t you go look at them and decide?”
That got a disgusted look. “I don’t care, okay? Geez, Jenna—there isn’t even a pool or anything. And it smells funny in here.”
“It’s just a little musty because it’s been closed up,” Jenna said, although she had to admit the aroma was doing nothing for a tummy already on the fritz from nervousness, exhaustion and heat. “It’ll clear out now that the windows are open.” And after I get my hands on some Lysol. “And maybe we can swim in the lake.”
Horror streaked across her niece’s features. “There’s probably, like, fish and…things in there! And seaweed! Gross!”
Jenna pointed out it would be tricky for seaweed to grow in a freshwater pond. Especially in the middle of the continent. Then, commandeering the last shreds of her quickly fading energy, she swatted her niece on the sole of her sneaker. “Come on—I need you to help me lug in the cooler. Then we can see about doing something for dinner. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
Although, to be truthful, the last thing Jenna wanted to think about right now was food. No, actually, the last thing she wanted to think about was Hank Logan. Or any of the reasons why they were there to begin with. All she really wanted to do was go to sleep for about a week and forget about moody nieces, revelations in diaries, P.I. reports and newspaper clippings and sexy, rumpled, grumpy men with bedroom voices who wigged out her hormones.
Speaking of grumpy…Blair actually deigned to haul her tush off the sofa and out to the car, dumping a miffed Meringue onto the floor in the process.
Jenna’s spirits lifted, just a little. Miffed cats she could handle.
Springing earth-shattering news on people was something else again.

“Jenna! Jenna—wake up!”
Fighting her way out of a dream, Jenna pried open one eye and looked—if you could call it that—at Blair. “Wha—?”
“The toilet’s overflowing!”
At this point, Jenna experienced one of Life’s Little Truisms, which is that one’s urge to pee is in direct proportion to the discovery that there’s no toilet. Especially when one last went—Jenna finally screwed up enough oomph to peer at her travel clock—ten hours ago.
“Jenna! It’s like really coming out fast, all over the bathroom!”
Three seconds later found Jenna wading through the inch of surprisingly frigid water rapidly threatening the living room. Cursing and muttering, she prayed there was a turn-off valve under the toilet, both because she didn’t relish the idea of swamp living and because the gushing water was doing nothing for her full bladder.
There was. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t budge. Cursing and muttering more loudly, especially at the dumb cat who got right smack in her path, Jenna sloshed out of the bathroom and across the living room to the kitchen, where the valve under the kitchen sink did work. Which stopped the flooding—which was the good news—but also shut off the water for the entire cabin. Which was the bad.
She swore again, a meatier word this time, then stomped back to the bathroom, grabbed the spare roll of toilet paper off the commode, said, “I’ll be right back” and hotfooted it outside, still in her shortie pj’s. When she returned a few minutes later, Blair was standing on the porch, her expression duly horror-stricken.
“You went in public?”
“Yes, Blair,” Jenna said, zipping past her and on into her room, where she rummaged in her still-packed bags, grabbing the first things that came to hand. Okay, she was now officially in a bad mood. Dammit—she had planned to sleep in. She had planned on a bracing run, then a leisurely shower. She had not planned on dealing with Hank Logan before coffee. Or a shower. “I went all the way back to the road and squatted right where anybody coming or going could see me. For heaven’s sake—” she quickly hauled on shorts and a white T-shirt “—it was just me and about five million startled birds.”
She turned to face her niece, whose expression had changed from horrified to disgusted. Jenna grabbed her Redskins ball cap from the nightstand and crammed her hair up into it, feeling about as attractive as grout gunk. “I’m going to report this. You might as well get dressed while I’m gone, since I guess we’re having breakfast in town. TP’s on the coffee table if you need it.”
“This was a really stupid idea, Jenna.”
Jenna looked up and saw the tears cresting on her niece’s lower lids. On a sigh, she closed the gap between them, pulling the girl into her arms.
“I’m sorry things started out so badly,” she whispered into her niece’s soft, slippery hair. “But it’ll get better. I promise.”
Then she left before the hysterical laughter escaped.

Even after more than two years, Hank still occasionally had mornings where he’d jerk awake in a sweat, gasping for air as though somebody’d dumped a load of wet cement on his chest.
Shutting his eyes against the almost painful pounding of his heart, he rolled himself up to sit on the edge of his bed, fumbling for his cigarettes. His hands shook so badly it took him three tries to get the damn lighter working. He’d actually quit for several months a year or so ago, but between the memories during the day and the night terrors…well, the smoking seemed the lesser of the evils, frankly.
He took his first drag of the morning and waited for his heart rate to settle down. Ryan, his pain-in-the-ass brother, who happened also to be Haven’s sole M.D., ragged on Hank whenever he saw him about the smoking. Which was one reason Hank tended to stay out of Ryan’s way. Besides—damn, how long was it gonna take for the nicotine to kick in, already?—it wasn’t like he had any real reason to prolong his life….
Aw, hell. Who was banging the crap out of the office bell this early?
He swore, took a last pull on the cigarette and stamped it out, then yanked on the pair of jeans he’d left by the bed the night before. Didn’t bother with underwear. The way he figured it, if this was who he figured it was at—what the hell time was it, anyway?—seven-fifteen in the morning, she should be grateful he bothered getting dressed at all.
For some reason, the image of Jenna Stanton’s expression at the sight of him in the altogether brought a glimmer of sunshine to what was undoubtedly fixing to be a rotten day.
“You can lay off the bell now,” he said, jerking open the door between his apartment and the front office. Predictably enough, she jumped back, her eyes huge underneath the brim of her ball cap, her breasts straining against the fabric of her tucked-in T-shirt like a pair of little—very little—kids’ faces pressed against a candy shop window.
“Mr. Logan! What if this had been Blair?” She flapped her hands at him; he bet she’d be fit to be tied if she realized how red her cheeks were. “Please—g-go back and finish getting dressed. I’m not in that much of a hurry.”
Hank’s accession to her demands extended as far as snapping his jeans’ waistband. And while he wouldn’t go so far as to say he was enjoying watching her watching him, he did have to admit he was getting a perverse sort of pleasure out of ruffling Ms. Stanton’s very ruffleable feathers.
“You come knockin’ before 8:00 a.m., Ms. Stanton, you take me as you find me. Now am I correct in assuming you’re not here to invite me to breakfast?”
Her eyes snapped to his. “The t-toilet was overflowing. In the cabin. I turned off the main valve to the cabin, but now we obviously have no running water. So it needs to be fixed right away.”
Hank scratched his chin, thinking maybe he’d get around to shaving today. Or maybe not. He’d have to think on it for a bit. “No water, huh? You need to use my can?” He nodded toward the apartment.
“No, I don’t need to use your…bathroom. We, um…”
In spite of himself, he felt a grin tugging at his mouth, if not chasing away what was left of the nightmare, at least dulling its effects somewhat. Lord, but it had been a long time since he’d had this much fun yanking a woman’s chain.
“I take it, Ms. Stanton, you have enough sense not to use leaves to—”
“Blair and I are going into town for breakfast,” she interrupted, her cheeks full-out blazing now. “I…I’d appreciate it if you could see to the problem before we get back?”
Then she turned on her heel—rope-soled shoes today—and stormed out, her fanny not daring to move a single extra muscle as she went.
“Ms. Stanton?”
She turned, brows hoisted. Hank dug in his jeans pocket and extracted a five-dollar bill. “Since you’re going into town anyway, d’you suppose you could bring me back a bacon and egg sandwich from Ruby’s? With a side of hash browns? Oh, and while you’re at it—” he went on a second excavation for another five “—get me a chocolate shake, too.”
For a good two or three seconds, she regarded him with what could only be described as a cross between stupefaction and profound pity. But she tromped back over to the counter and snatched the bills from Hank’s hands. “I suppose that’s the least I can do in exchange for your checking out my plumbing so early in the morning.” In rapid succession, she blushed, cleared her throat, and said, “You drink milk shakes for breakfast?”
For some dumb reason, a big old smile stretched across Hank’s face. “Spoken truly like somebody who’s never had one of Ruby’s chocolate shakes.”
She opened her mouth as if she was about to say something, only to spin around again. This time, he let her make it all the way outside, thinking he sure did like that indignant little backside of hers.
Yep, Jenna Stanton might be a priss, but she was a damned attractive priss. In fact, she was the kind of woman that set a man’s hands itching to stroke some of the starch right out of her, to back her up to whatever was handy and kiss her senseless. Just for the challenge, y’know?
And Hank was damned grateful that he was old enough, and, he hoped, smart enough, to know that he had no business thinking he might be that man.

Chapter 2
Jenna had read about places like this—hell, she’d written about places like this—but before this morning, she’d never experienced one live and in person. Judging from Blair’s owl-eyed expression, her niece wasn’t exactly sure what to make of Ruby’s Café, either.
Blair leaned forward. “God, it looks like a movie set or something.”
Jenna leaned over as well. “I know. And don’t say ‘God.’ It’s tacky.”
Blair made a face, then slouched back against the seat. A pretty brunette waitress in standard-issue pink sleaze had already given them menus and poured Jenna a cup of decaf. The place was crowded, mostly with men in various permutations of denim and cotton jersey. Over a constant stream of good-natured insults and laughter and you-reckon-it’s-ever-gonna-rain-agains?, dishes clattered and bacon sizzled on the grill behind the counter. And, despite the inauspicious start to the morning, Jenna started to feel better. A little.
Then she picked up her cup. And there, shimmering like a mirage in her decaf, stood Hank Logan, half-naked and freshly aroused. Awake. Awake, she corrected herself, quickly lowering the heavy ceramic cup back into its saucer.
Blair frowned. “What’s the matter? Your cheeks are all pink.”
“Nothing.” Jenna tried a smile. “Did you sleep okay?”
That got a shrug.
“Charmaine told me we had visitors,” a rich voice intoned over their heads. Jenna looked up into a round, dark, beaming face topped with short white hair. “How’re you folks doing today?” As Jenna and Blair mumbled their “fines,” the woman, dressed in a loose white shirt and pale-blue polyester pants, topped Jenna’s still-full coffee cup, then said, “Glad to hear it. I’m Ruby Kennedy. My husband Jordy and I run this place, so if there’s anything you don’t see on the menu, just go on ahead and ask, and we’ll see what we can do. Although I’m thinking seriously about making up some blueberry pancakes, if that might be of interest to anybody.” She looked pointedly at Blair, who in turn looked pointedly at Jenna with something almost like interest flickering in her blue eyes.
Jenna chuckled. “Go for it, sweetie.”
“C’n I have coffee, too?”
“Nice try, and you know the answer. Juice or milk.”
For a second, the grump face reappeared, but then, on a sigh, Blair said she’d like the blueberry pancakes with orange juice. Please.
“How about some bacon or sausage with that?” Ruby asked.
Blair visibly shuddered. “I don’t eat meat.”
Ruby’s brows lifted, but all she said was, “And what about you, baby?” to Jenna. “You want the blueberry pancakes, too?”
“Actually, no, I think I’ll stick with a bowl of Special K and a grapefruit half.”
Now Ruby laughed. “Lord, no wonder you’re so skinny. But if that’s what floats your boat, who am I to say? Okay, we’ll get that right out to you—”
“Oh, wait!” Jenna called out to Ruby as she started to leave. “I just remembered—I’m supposed to bring back breakfast for Mr. Logan, too.”
“Mr. Logan? Which one?”
She and Blair exchanged glances. “There’s more than one?”
“Three, as a matter of fact. Brothers. Although one’s a doctor, not a mister. Which one you want breakfast for?”
“Uh…Hank.” Shouldn’t the P.I. have told her there were brothers? “The one who runs the Double Arrow.”
That was worth a frown and a pair of crossed arms underneath a prodigious bosom. “You stayin’ out there?”
“We’re renting one of the cottages for the month, yes.”
“Where you from, honey? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“D.C. Why?”
“And you came all the way out here to stay in one of Hank Logan’s cottages?”
Jenna tried to staunch the uneasiness beginning to fester in her stomach. If her and Blair’s staying there looked odd to this Ruby person, who else might find it suspicious?
Then Blair chimed in with, “My aunt’s a writer. She’s here doing research for her next book.”
Ruby’s gaze drifted back to Jenna. “Is that a fact? You written anything I might have read?”
Feeling the familiar panic rising in her throat as several heads in the vicinity turned in her direction, Jenna mumbled her pen name. Ruby’s face lit up.
“You’re kidding? You’re Jennifer Phillips? Who writes those Stella Moon books? Land, honey, I’ve read all of those so many times, they’re like to fall apart. Hey, Jordy,” she yelled back toward the counter, where a big, bald black man in a sparkling white T-shirt and apron was manning the griddle, “guess who’s sitting right here in our diner? Jennifer Phillips, that writer I’ve been telling you about!”
“No fooling?” Jordy glanced over his shoulder, never missing a beat as he flipped what looked like dozens of pancakes onto several plates, garnishing them with bacon or sausage before setting them out on the counter and hollering to the two waitresses. Then, wiping his hands on a towel, he came out from behind the counter and over to Jenna’s table, his wide grin showing off a gold tooth that coordinated quite nicely with his earring.
“You sure do write some good books, Ms. Phillips. I never can figure out whodunnit until the end, and I almost always do with other mystery writers.”
After a minute’s conversation, Ruby and Jordy went back to the kitchen, but not before five or six other patrons left their seats and came over, all apparently tickled to death to meet her, asking if she’d mind autographing their copies of her books for them while she was there and what her next book was going to be about and if she needed any ideas, you know, in case she got that writer’s block.
To Jenna’s surprise, the panic that invariably made her palms sweat and her stomach knot up so badly she’d stopped doing book signings altogether never really developed. Why, she didn’t know, other than maybe, even though it didn’t make any sense, these people didn’t really feel like strangers.
Ruby brought their breakfast over to them herself, shooing everyone away “so these people can eat their breakfast in peace.” Then Ruby asked Blair how old she was, and when Blair said thirteen, Ruby said Sam Frazier had a girl the same age, he had a farm just out behind the Double Arrow, and wouldn’t it be nice if Blair and Libby Frazier could get together, since Ruby imagined that Libby, who apparently had five younger brothers, might appreciate having another girl to talk to?
Not until a young woman came in, her arms loaded with what looked like pie boxes—“Six apples, three peaches and three cherries, right?” she called out to Ruby, who went to relieve her of her burden—did peace finally descend. About halfway through her grapefruit—which was plump and sweet—Jenna looked over to see Blair looking at her with a funny expression on her face.
“What now?”
“Nothing. It’s just that it must be so cool, to have all those people saying how much they like your books and stuff.” She crammed a huge bite of pancake into her mouth and said around it, “I mean, I would think it was, anyway.”
“Well, yes. It is.” A wry smile tilted her lips. “It’s certainly a nice change from rotten reviews.”
“Then why don’t you do book signings anymore?”
Jenna’s fingers tightened around the serrated spoon. “You know why, honey.”
Her brows dipped. “How come it’s okay for you to be scared of something, but if I say I am, you tell me I have to face it anyway?”
Jenna took a deep breath, then dared to meet her niece’s gaze, deciding the din of chatter and clanking silverware on stoneware was sufficient to mask their own conversation. She’d never really understood the debilitating shyness that had made her childhood a living hell, or why it had pretty much faded away for so many years only to make a cruel and equally puzzling comeback after Phil’s death. The only thing she did understand about it was that she never knew when it was going to strike. And that she’d gotten tired of fighting it, unless she had to.
Like now.
“It’s not okay for me to be afraid, Blair. And as far as facing things that frighten me…” She stopped, thinking about why they were here, about how whatever decisions she made could change her world. Then the memory of Hank Logan’s unapologetically harsh features crashed into her thoughts, speeding up her heart rate, making her skin go clammy, her stomach lurch. Speaking of facing things that scared her.
“I don’t mean to come across as sounding callous, sweetie,” Jenna said. “Or as if I don’t think your fears are valid. I do understand, I swear.” She shook her head, frowning at her grapefruit as she dug out a segment. “I also know what it’s like to let them cripple you.”
“But you were fine just then—”
“Blair, please.” Jenna lowered her voice. “I know I was. But I don’t know why I was. So can we please just drop the subject—”
“I am so sorry,” Ruby said, reappearing at their table. “With all the excitement, I completely forgot to take Hank’s order so I can have it ready for you when you get ready to go. Although I can probably guess—bacon and egg sandwich, side of hash browns and a chocolate shake, right?”
In spite of her quaking stomach, Jenna smiled. “I take it he comes in regularly?”
“Baby, men are so predictable, it’s pitiful. Even though, no, actually, he hardly comes in anymore, not since he moved back. But when he was a kid, he’d come in here just about every day, order the same thing each time. I’d be real surprised to hear he’d changed his stripes.”
“He hasn’t,” Jenna said, and Ruby laughed. After calling out the order to Jordy, she turned back to Jenna.
“And how about you? Can I get you anything else?”
“No, I think that will do,” Jenna said, reaching for her purse. On the other side of the restaurant, she heard the whirrr of the old-fashioned milk-shake machine. She looked up in time to see Jordy dump in enough thick, rich, gooey chocolate syrup to coat the entire state. She felt her lips part, her eyes glaze over, as lust swept through her.
She looked up into Ruby’s knowing, dark eyes, connecting on a level as basic as life itself. “On second thought…”
“Jordy?” Ruby called over.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Need another chocolate shake over here—”
Blair raised her hand.
“Make that three.”
Jenna and Blair looked at each other and started to giggle.

After he’d fixed the john, Hank had a moment’s tussle with himself over whether to go on back to the office or stay put and wait for his breakfast right there. Either way, he’d have to talk to Jenna. Of course, if he hadn’t asked her to bring back his breakfast, it wouldn’t even be an issue, now would it?
He decided to stay. What the hell, he’d already left a note on the office door, in case anyone needed to find him. Well, you never knew.
The metal toolbox clattered mightily when he set it on the porch, right behind the railing. Plunking his butt on the steps, he lit up, then leaned back on his elbows, scratching his chest through the “This Old House” T-shirt Ryan’s new wife Maddie had given him as a joke last Christmas. He’d taken a fast shower after Jenna’s wake-up call, so at least he smelled okay. Still hadn’t bothered to shave, though. Seemed a waste of time.
A mountain jay squawked overhead, setting off a twittering chorus from sparrows and finches. It was going to be hot as hell later, but right now the breeze messing with his still-damp hair was just the right temperature, gliding like a woman’s fingertips over his skin. Except for his growling stomach, he might almost believe he was at peace. Except he knew he wasn’t. And probably never would be. Some things, you just don’t make peace with.
The force shrink had suggested he find something to keep him too busy and too tired to brood. A six-month leave had been the plan. Except then this place had come on the market, dirt-cheap, and he’d snapped it up, even though he’d had no idea what he thought he was going to do with a guest lodge. Still didn’t. But damned if the shrink hadn’t been right—if it was mind-numbing you were after, nothing beat day after eighteen-hour day of grueling manual labor. Still, it was like learning to live without a limb; you adjusted, and you got by, but you never knew when the phantom pain would strike. And that alone was enough to make him vow to never set himself up for that kind of pain again.
Hank stared at the cigarette in his hand, frowning for a second or two, then lifted his gaze toward the lake, sparkling in the distance. Maybe he’d take a dip later, after he finished redoing those gutters on Number 6….
He stood when he heard Jenna Stanton’s Toyota chugging up the road. Kinda on the old side, the car was. But then Toyota owners tended to hang on to the things until they rusted out from under them.
She pulled up alongside the cottage; both doors swung open, both females emerged, sucking like mad on straws poking up out of Ruby’s bright-red take-out cups. A plastic bag swung from Jenna’s left hand, the white foam carry-out box clearly visible through it. Hank’s mouth started to water.
From underneath the brim of her cap, questions flickered in those chilly blue eyes. She handed him the bag, the kid making a great show of swatting at the air in front of her. The girl’s eyes were blue, too, he saw. Darker, though.
“Smoking is so gross!”
The straw popped out of Jenna’s mouth. “Blair!”
“No, she’s right, it is,” Hank said, grinding the cigarette into the dirt with the toe of his workboot. “I just happen to like gross things.”
The young gal shuddered, then stormed up the steps and on inside, making loud slurpy noises with her straw. The screen door slammed shut behind her; Hank looked at Jenna. “She out to save the world?”
“One deluded soul at a time.” She sucked on her own straw for a moment, then said, “So. We have water again?”
“Yep. Much as you want. And only when you want. I changed out the kitchen sink washer, too, since it was about to go.” Which is what he should do—go, instead of standing here and chit-chatting like some yahoo. “The cat will back me up, seeing as he watched my every move.”
“Wow.” More sucking. “You’re talented. And Meringue’s a she.”
“I should’ve known.” Then, for some oddball reason, he sat back down on the steps and dug his breakfast out of the bag, adding, “Anyway, my daddy’s motto was if you can’t fix it, you shouldn’t own it.”
After apparently giving the matter some thought, Jenna sat, too, leaning up against the opposite railing. “Too bad that philosophy doesn’t work with kids,” she said, shoving a strand of hair back up under the hat.
“Eh, your daughter’s not so bad. A bit anal, maybe, but then, I suppose she just takes after her mother.”
When several moments passed, Hank figured he’d probably ticked Jenna off. But before he could make up his mind whether to apologize or not, she said, “Blair’s not my daughter. She’s my niece.”
He’d nearly had his chompers around that sandwich, boy, the doughy white bread all soaked with bacon grease just the way he liked it. Now he looked up. Jenna was still sucking on that straw. He thought for a moment, then took a bite anyway. “Where’s her mama?”
She lowered the cup, toyed with the plastic lid for a moment. “She died a few months ago.”
Hank swore softly, then took another bite of the sandwich before its innards slid out of the bread and landed in his lap. “That’s rough on a kid. I was a senior in high school when my mama passed, and it was still hard.” He wiped his hands on one of about fifty napkins Ruby’d sent along. “I guess she’s entitled to be a little…you know.”
Jenna didn’t smile so much as her face seemed to relax. “Yeah. She is.”
“So she lives with you now?”
She fiddled with the straw for a bit, screaking it in and out of the plastic lid. “Actually, she’s been living with me since she was a baby. My husband and I raised her. My sister…wasn’t exactly a constant in her daughter’s life.”
Hank swallowed, trying to figure out what was bothering him so much about this conversation. Cop instincts again, he decided, keeping an eye out for body language that would alert him that she was lying or something. But all he saw was a pretty lady with her hair crammed up in a stupid hat, her mouth creased some from sucking so hard on that straw.
She nodded toward his sandwich. “How’s your breakfast?”
“What? Oh…good.” He took another bite, then unwrapped his own straw, poking it into the little hole on the plastic lid. Some of the chocolate oozed out around the base. For some reason, Hank’s throat got dry. He looked up at Jenna, her cheeks sunk in as she sucked on her own straw, and his throat got dryer. Then his lips curved up in a smile.
“That wouldn’t be a chocolate shake by any chance, would it?”
She let go of the straw and smiled as well. Not full out, maybe, but it was something. “As a matter of fact, it is.” Her eyes glittered like aquamarines underneath the hat brim. “This is absolutely the best chocolate milk shake I have ever had.”
“See? What did I tell ya?”
She took another short pull, then lowered the cup again, her eyes narrowed. But that almost-smile still flirted with her lips. “It’s not worth getting a swelled head over.”
A drop of chocolate glistened at the corner of her mouth: her tongue darted out, snatched it inside like a mother taking her child out of the rain.
Swelled head, no. Other things, however…
“Oh!” She shifted to one hip to dig in her pants pocket. “I almost forgot…here’s your change.” She leaned over to drop the bills and coins into his hand, her fingers brushing his palm. An innocent touch, brief and meaningless. Except Jenna’s cheeks flushed. And no, he wasn’t imagining it. And let’s just say Hank could see where things could get interesting between them. If he’d let it. If she’d let it, which was even less likely, considering that wedding ring of hers. Hank did not mess around with married women. Hell, Hank hadn’t messed around with anybody since Michelle’s death. Which probably accounted for why he was seeing erotic overtones in milk shakes, for cripe’s sake.
“What’s your husband do, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Her laugh startled him, not only because that was the last thing he expected her to do and because he liked the sound. A lot.
“What’s so funny?”
One side of her mouth pulled up. “The way people around here seem to think if you add ‘if you don’t mind my asking’ on the end of a prying question, that somehow makes it okay.”
She didn’t seem particularly offended, though. So Hank shrugged. “I guess that way we can ask whatever’s on our mind, but it still leaves folks the option of not answering if they don’t want to without being afraid they might hurt somebody’s feelings.” He finished off his sandwich, picked up the plastic fork to attack the hash browns. “So. You gonna answer, or you gonna take your out?”

The last thing Jenna had expected was for Hank Logan to sit himself down and get chatty. So it had thrown her for a loop when he had. But then, she suspected Hank was good at keeping people off balance. Like the way he could still look so disreputable—did the man even own a comb and razor?—but smell so incredibly good, even over the cigarette smoke. In any case, after her initial No! Go away! I don’t want to talk to you! reaction, logic took over. After all, she couldn’t very well get to know the man if she never talked to him, could she? And since it might look a wee bit suspicious if she made the overtures, she should be grateful for the opportunity that fate had presented her, right?
The thing was, though, she was supposed to be finding out about him, not the other way around. Still—there went that damned logic business again—if she opened up to him, maybe he’d open up to her. Besides, this was all stuff he’d find out eventually, anyway. If…things worked out, he’d need to know as much about Blair as possible. And everything that affected Jenna affected Blair.
“My husband died three years ago, of cancer,” she said at last. “Almost three and a half, actually.” She still wasn’t quite reconciled to how little her heart twinged when she mentioned Phil’s death, or to the fact that it had been ages since she’d felt guilty about laughing, or that the memories that once ached were more likely these days to suffuse her with a gentle joy. But it had taken a long, long time to get to this point. And even so, her sense of peace was as fragile as spun sugar. She would do nothing to jeopardize it.
Nothing.
“I’m sorry,” Hank said, the surprising gentleness in his voice luring her eyes to seek his. And for the briefest moment, she saw her own emptiness reflected in his bottomless black gaze; she hitched one shoulder, then shivered slightly in the breeze. From the cold milk shake, she assumed. Although more likely from the uneasiness of her knowing more about him than he could possibly guess.
“Phil was a real fighter,” she said, although she wasn’t entirely sure why, especially as she seemed to be the only one baring her soul, here. “But God, it was hard, watching him suffer. So when he finally let go, it was almost a relief.”
Hank stabbed at his hash browns, forked a bite into his mouth. He chewed for several seconds, then said, “I take it you had a good marriage?”
“Yeah. We did.” She shrugged. “It just didn’t last long enough—”
The screen door banged back as Blair picked that moment to come outside. Her hair was wet: she’d apparently taken a shower, then put on clean shorts and a T-shirt large enough to hold a revival meeting in.
Barefoot, she crossed the porch, then plopped herself down beside Jenna, eyeing Hank cautiously. As she’d done since Blair was a little girl, Jenna lifted a hand to rub between her niece’s shoulder blades, thinking, as she did from time to time, that this was the last person she’d ever have to be afraid for.
“There’s nothing to do,” Blair said, her hands framing her face.
Hank snorted. Both Jenna and Blair looked at him. “See, that’s the trouble with city folks. They got it in their heads that doin’ nothing’s a crime.” He tossed a soggy crust of bread out into the yard, presumably for the birds. Or something. “Free time is a rarity for kids around here, so they know how to make the most of it. If nothing else, you could always take yourself off to explore some of the trails behind the lake.”
“Oh, yeah, that’d be real exciting.”
Jenna slid her hand to Blair’s shoulder to give her a little warning squeeze, just as she caught the muscle ticking in Hank’s beard-hazed jaw.
“Far as I can tell,” he said, his words clipped, “you got two choices. You can either sit around and mope for the next month, or you can get up off your duff and go find something to do.”
Blair’s hands smacked to her knees and her mouth fell open, but before she could say anything, Jenna put in, “I just remembered…the car’s air conditioner is on the fritz. Is there a mechanic around here who can fix a Toyota?”
Hank and Blair glared at each other for a moment, then Hank seemed to force his gaze back to Jenna. “Yeah. Darryl Andrews at the Chevron in town. He’s good, he’s fair and he’s honest. You might have to leave the car, though. He’s always pretty backed up.”
“Oh.” She frowned. Haven wasn’t exactly rife with public transportation options. Except, she thought on a sigh, it wasn’t as if she was in a split to go anywhere. She didn’t, however, relish the idea of trekking back out here on foot. She jogged, yes, but not in ninety-degree heat, and not five unfamiliar miles. But, since she didn’t know another soul, that meant…
Another opportunity. Oh, joy.
“I don’t suppose I could talk you into following us into town, then bringing us back if I have to leave the car?”
The flimsy fork hovered over the hashbrowns.
Blair popped to her feet and stormed back inside.
“I don’t know,” Hank said, stabbing at the potatoes. Not looking at her. “I’m kinda busy this morning.”
Ah. “Blair doesn’t have to come. She’s old enough to stay by herself for an hour or so.”
“And do what?”
Jenna caught herself toying with her wedding rings, tucked her arms against her ribs. “Actually, she’s got plenty to do, including getting started on her required summer reading. Or she can go for a walk, like you suggested.”
Hank glanced up, then back down at his breakfast. “So how come you didn’t remind her of that a while ago?”
“Because sometimes I feel all I ever do is nag. It gets old.”
Silence dragged on between them for several seconds before he said, “She’s not exactly the easiest kid to get along with, is she?”
Jenna’s brows knotted. “At the moment, maybe not. But she’s been through a lot in the past three years. Which you acknowledged yourself.”
“I know I did. But that’s no excuse for her acting like a snot.”
“Oh? And what’s yours?”
Again, his movements stilled. Then he abruptly stuffed his stuff back into the plastic bag and rocketed to his feet, and Jenna thought, Whoa, welcome to Arrested Male Development Central. Talk about getting your boxers in a bunch. If he wore any, that is. Which, considering her earlier encounter, was definitely not a given.
Could she trust a man who didn’t wear underwear?
And while she was musing about all this, Hank reached behind the railing and retrieved the largest toolbox she’d ever seen, the veins on his hand popping out in stark relief as he tromped down the porch steps. Then he turned, his expression kicking up her pulse. Even from here, she could tell every muscle in his body had gone taut, alert and unyielding underneath the soft cotton of his T-shirt, his worn jeans.
“If you’re so damn intent on mollycoddling the gal, why’d you bring her out here to begin with?”
Now her heart jumped into her throat, even as her brain scrambled to make sense of his vacillation. He’d certainly seemed sympathetic earlier—why the sudden switch? “I hardly think trying to be sensitive to the emotional needs of a child who’s just lost her mother is mollycoddling her.”
“Thought you said you raised her?”
“I did.” She lowered her voice, resisting the urge to dodge that intense, assessing gaze. “But Blair still knew her mother. On top of my husband’s death, her mother’s came as a blow. And I told you. I’m here on a research trip. I obviously couldn’t leave Blair by herself back in D.C., could I?”
His eyes narrowed. “And she couldn’t stay with anybody back home?”
“No.” Jenna folded her arms over her quaking stomach. But there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about her heated cheeks. “She couldn’t.”
For an excruciatingly long two or three seconds, their eyes remained locked, suspicion rolling off him in suffocating waves. Her potentially fatal mistake, Jenna realized, was forgetting that Hank Logan had been a cop. A good one, too, from what she’d been able to glean. Anything out of the ordinary was liable to set off his alarms. Her being here with Blair, not to mention her deliberate evasion of her sister’s name, definitely qualified.
Why the hell had she thought she’d be able to pull this off?
Then he looked away. The frown was still in place, his jaw still set, but his breaking eye contact felt like being released from a stranglehold. Jenna hauled in a deep, shuddering breath, only to feel it catch when his eyes met hers again.
“Okay, look—I’d planned on goin’ into town tomorrow anyway, to pick up some supplies. Don’t suppose it matters a whole lot if I push it up a day. Just tell your niece, if she goes with us, I won’t get up her nose if she doesn’t get up mine, okay?”
Jenna stood, hugging herself. Even though she stood a step up from the bottom, Hank still towered over her, solid and strong.
And alive. Very, very alive.
She swallowed back bitter, out-of-nowhere tears. “Sounds fair to me.”
He cocked his head, his brows dipped, and Jenna willed the tears back, thinking, Oh, please God, don’t let him ask me if I’m all right.
But he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Got some things to do first, though, before I can leave.” He twisted away, heading down the driveway. “Give me an hour,” he said, his words nearly swept away on the breeze swooshing through the trees, “then come on down to the office.”
A moment or two passed before Jenna collected herself enough to shout, “Okay! Thanks!” at Hank’s rapidly retreating back. Without turning around, he lifted a hand in acknowledgement.
As Jenna watched him stride down the driveway, she realized just how much of a hellish position she was in. While there was no way she was going to tell Hank the truth until she determined whether or not he was worthy of being entrusted with that knowledge, if and when she did decide to tell him, she suffered no illusions about what was going to hit the fan. And yes, she knew she was being judgmental. But she had sole responsibility for the welfare of a child she loved with all her heart, a responsibility she was more than willing to put her butt on the line for…even if it meant royally pissing off the man who was, in all likelihood, that child’s father.

Exactly one hour later, Jenna pulled the Corolla up alongside Hank’s truck, parked outside the office, and honked. And waited. When, after several minutes had passed and no scary, scruffy man emerged, Jenna left the car and went inside, leaving the engine running. An on-its-last-legs air conditioner rattled and wheezed from a small window on her left; the door to his apartment was cracked open.
“Mr. Logan?” She batted the bell a few times. “I’m here!”
No answer.
She drummed her nails on the counter for a second, then walked around the counter and called again. Nothing. So she knocked on the door. Which, not being completely closed, swung open.
She didn’t mean to look, honestly. Nobody was bigger on privacy issues than she was. But the door fell away and the room was just…there.
In all its A-bomb glory. In fact, she was so stunned by the state of Hank’s apartment—she’d seen more orderly dumps—the music, only half-audible over the air conditioner’s groaning, barely registered. Then it did.
Hold the phone—the man listened to opera? To Wagner, no less? She would have expected country. Hard rock, heavy metal, maybe. Opera…uh, no.
Hank’s scowling face was suddenly inches from hers. Jenna yipped and jumped back.
“I said I’d be ready in an hour,” he said.
“Which was up fifteen minutes ago.”
The scowl deepened. He glanced at his watch, some gigundo number that probably did everything but launch the space shuttle. He swore, mumbled “Sorry,” then grabbed his wallet, slid through the door and shut it firmly behind him.
“Anybody ever teach you to knock?” he asked, loping through the office and on outside, making Jenna scurry behind him.
“Anybody ever teach you how to pick up your clothes? And slow down, for heaven’s sake! My legs aren’t as long as yours!”
He did—sort of—then whipped out a pair of sunglasses, ramming them into place as his legs ate up the space between the office and the truck. “Don’t see how I keep my own apartment is any business of yours.”
Okay, he had a point. Besides, so it was a little…messy. That didn’t mean it was actually dirty.
Did it?
“Anyway,” she said, neatly evading the issue, “I did knock. The door wasn’t closed tightly.”
They’d reached the vehicles. Hank shot a glance at her car and asked, “Where’s the kid?”
“What? Oh, she decided not to come. Anyway—”
Hank jerked open his truck door, climbed inside.
“—I guess you didn’t hear me knock over the music. So you like opera?”
Seated behind the wheel, his door still open, he glared at her for a moment, then slammed shut the door. “Yeah, I like opera. Now can we get goin’? I haven’t got all day.”
He backed out of the parking space in a cloud of dust, barely giving Jenna time to hop in her car and follow.

Blair crunched up into a sitting position on her bed and tossed A Tale of Two Cities across the room, then apologized to Meringue for making her jump. God, this was the suckiest summer of her entire life. And A Tale of Two Cities was like the suckiest book ever written. Why did they make them read this boring old stuff, anyway? Like who cared what happened two hundred years ago?
She felt all knotted up inside, like she wanted to cry, but when she screwed up her face, nothing happened. Which is the way she’d felt when Jenna’d told her about her mother, like she should’ve been sadder or missed her more or something. Mostly, she’d just been mad, even if she didn’t really know why.
Feeling weird and jittery, like when she drank a whole Coke before going to bed, she got up and walked out into the living room, Meringue trailing her. Maybe she should’ve gone back into town with Jenna. Except then she would’ve had to ride back in Mr. Logan’s truck, between him and Jenna. No way.
God. Hank Logan was like the weirdest man she’d ever met, acting like he thought he was all cool and stuff because he smoked and didn’t comb his hair or shave.
And she did not like the way he looked at Jenna.
Her arms crossed, Blair stood in the middle of the room—which still smelled funny—listening to the irritating clink-clink-clink from the pull-chain rattling against the overhead fan’s light globe. What was really sucky was having everyone tell you to stop acting like a baby but never letting you make any decisions about your own life. If she’d been older, sixteen or seventeen, Jenna wouldn’t’ve dared drag her out here like this.
Meringue mewed, snaking around her ankles; Blair picked her up, burying her face in the cat’s soft white fur, getting a head bump for her efforts. Then she sneezed and let the cat drop back onto the floor, swiping at her nose.
“God, Merry—keep your fur to yourself!”
The cat flicked her tail and stalked away; Blair plopped down at the dining table where Jenna had set up her laptop and logged online, but nobody she knew was on. So she sent a couple of e-mails to her best friends, DeAnna and Tiffany, but since they had gone to camp, she didn’t know if they could write her back.
She slumped in the chair, her arms folded across her chest. Maybe she should go for a walk or something. Not that she figured there was anything to see, but it was either that or A Tale of Two Cities. So she found a piece of paper and left Jenna a note, squirted on some sunscreen, grabbed a bottle of water, and left, heading for the far side of the lake.
Once there, she found the trail Mr. Logan had mentioned, cutting through the woods. She hesitated, then figured she wasn’t stupid, it wasn’t like she was going to get lost or anything. If she had to, she could always double back.
She hiked for maybe fifteen or twenty minutes, hearing nothing but her breath coming in short, ragged pants and a bazillion birds and her thoughts buzzing around inside her head. But it was cooler in here, and kind of pretty, the light all green-gold and sort of…heavy, like being underwater, and eventually the buzzing got softer and softer until she couldn’t really hear it anymore.
The path suddenly brightened ahead of her; a minute later, she came out onto a rutted dirt road leading to a farm or something in the distance. On the other side of the road, a field planted with long, soft grassy stuff rippled in the warm breeze like the ocean’s surface; looking toward the farm buildings, she could see a small cornfield, and beyond that several rows of smallish trees. An orchard maybe.
The bleat of a bicycle horn behind her made her spin around. Blair shaded her eyes against the sun as, in a cloud of dust, three bikes screeched to a stop in front of her.
“Who the heck are you?” yelped one little boy, seven or eight years old. His blond head was shorn so close his ears seemed to jut from his head like open taxi-cab doors. And she could see his scalp, which was kind of gross. Another boy, a little younger, his dark hair just as short, his ears just as big, giggled. But the third rider—who had let out a really pissed, “Wade, for heaven’s sake!” at the blond kid’s question, was a girl. A dark-haired girl wearing a loose, bright purple T-shirt over white shorts with fringed hems. She looked like she might be about Blair’s age, but even under the floppy shirt, Blair could see she already had breasts. The boys were barefoot, their toes practically gray.
“Hey,” the girl said, her light-brown eyes sparkling. Her hair was really long, like to her waist. And she was pretty. Really pretty. Even without makeup. “I’m Libby Frazier, and these are my brothers. Two of ’em, anyway. This here’s Wade, and this is Frankie,” she said, jerking her head toward the littlest one. “He doesn’t talk much on account of he can’t hear out of one ear.”
“Oh. Hi. I’m Blair. Blair Stanton.”
The girl grinned, and Blair could see her eyeteeth were crooked. “Cool name! You new here?”
“Yes. I mean, no. I’m staying with my aunt at the Double Arrow.”
“Oh.” Libby scrunched up her nose. “We live up there.” She nodded toward the farm. “Where’re you from?”
“Washington, D.C.”
“Really?” the blond boy said. “Where the president lives?”
In spite of herself, Blair laughed. “Yeah.”
“Don’t mind him. He’s just a stupid boy—”
“Am not!”
“Are, too.”
“Am not!”
Libby gave Blair a pleading look. “You got brothers?”
“Uh-uh.”
“You’re so lucky. I’ve got five. All of ’em younger,” she said, which is when it finally dawned on Blair that this must be the girl the woman in the café was talking about. “How old are you?”
Blair stuck her thumbs in her back shorts pockets and tried to look cool. “Thirteen.”
Libby grinned so widely, her eyes practically disappeared. “Me, too. Hey—you wanna come up to the house, play some CDs or something?”
Blair hesitated. Libby seemed okay and all, but she was nothing like Blair’s friends back home. What if she wanted to talk about…farm stuff? Or what if she was still into *NSYNC? Or Britney? Ewww.
But then, she supposed it beat talking to the cat all afternoon.
“Okay, sure. Long as I can call my aunt on her cell, let her know where I am.”
Libby’s whole face lit up. “Cool,” she said.

Chapter 3
Hank pulled up in front of Darryl’s office at the garage, where madame was waiting for him, and thought, God save me from needy, moody females.
At this point, Hank wasn’t sure who was agitating him more, Jenna Stanton with those half-scared, half-defiant blue eyes of hers, or her niece, who just plain rubbed him the wrong way. Not that he didn’t understand why she acted the way she did—only too well—but…well, it was just a good thing he didn’t have to deal with teenage girls on a regular basis. He’d go plumb out of his gourd.
And he still couldn’t shake the feeling of something being off about this whole thing, about Jenna’s coming to Haven with the kid. Much as she tried to hide it, the woman was clearly nervous about something. Trouble was, Hank couldn’t tell if she was nervous about something specific, or just nervous in general, the way some women were. Nervous women made him uncomfortable. You never knew when they’d go off on you, usually for no particular reason.
And since none of this was any of his business, he could just do himself a favor and keep his butt out and his mouth shut. All she and the gal were, were paying customers. Since he didn’t come by those any too often, ticking them off probably wasn’t the smartest thing he could do.
“Thanks again for doing this,” she said through the open passenger side window when he pulled up. He’d noticed earlier she’d changed into one of those dresses that looked like a too-long golf shirt, ending just above her knees. Navy blue, white collar. Might’ve even been dowdy if it weren’t for the way the jersey clung to a curve here and there, especially when it hiked up her thighs as she climbed up into the truck. Since her hair was now hanging loose around her shoulders, he figured she must have washed it. Sure enough, the instant she settled in beside him, the cab smelled all flowery and womanly. Sweet. Sexy.
He yanked the gearshift into drive. “So…what’d Darryl say? About the air conditioner?”
She let out a sigh. “He has to order some part or something. So, like you said, it’ll be a couple of days. But his estimate did seem fair, at least.”
Hank drove through the station and was out onto the road when, out of the blue, he said, “You need to pick up anything while we’re out?”
She turned, her brows lifted over her sunglasses.
“I don’t know what prompted me to say that, either,” he said, wanting a smoke so bad he thought he’d die, but figuring she probably wouldn’t appreciate him mucking up that sweet-smelling hair with cigarette smoke. “So you might as well take advantage of it, ’cause God alone knows when you’ll get an offer this good again.”
A half laugh burbled out of her throat; he glanced over, noticed that the little commas around her mouth—which had a real nice shape to it—seemed a mite more pronounced.
“I brought a ton of food with us,” she said, “so I don’t need to do any major shopping for a while. But I could stand to stop by a 7-Eleven or something for milk and juice. If it’s no bother.”
“Nope. Not at all.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her cross her arms, staring out the windshield like it didn’t matter two hoots to her whether they talked or not. Well, fine. Offering to take her shopping didn’t mean he felt like having a conversation. But after about three seconds, he figured that was a damn sight better than sitting there and letting all that sweet, sexy, just-washed-hair scent take his mind down paths it had no business going down.
“So,” he said. “What do you write?”
She brushed her hair out of her face. In the sunlight, he could see it was about a hundred different shades of gold. He knew it was dyed—he’d seen the special shampoo in her bathroom—but that was okay. “Mystery novels,” she said.
“Yeah? Under your own name?”
“No. As Jennifer Phillips.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve seen those around.”
She did this little mm-mm laugh. He glanced over. “What?”
“I take it you’re not a fan, then?”
“Well, no, can’t say that I am. Since I haven’t read them. No offense,” he added quickly. “I just got the feeling they were kinda girly.”
Now she laughed full out, the sound doing far worse things for his mind-wandering problem than the shampoo fragrance ever even thought about. “Girly, huh? So. Who do you read? Assuming you do?”
“Yeah, I read. My mama was real big on reading, so all of us were hooked early. Read every Hardy Boys there was. Then in high school I started in on Stephen King, went on to Koontz, Grisham, Lawrence Block. Just recently started reading Jeffrey Deaver.”
He could feel, more than see, her smile. “You have good taste. If a bit gory at times.” And while Hank was wondering why it should make one shred of difference to him whether or not she approved of his reading matter, she added, “King’s just about my favorite writer. And probably one of the biggest influences on my own writing.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Huh. Hank wouldn’t’ve thought that a woman who blushed as easily as Jenna Stanton would get off on Stephen King. Let alone write stuff like that.
At the Git ’n’ Go, Hank figured he might as well pick up a carton of cigarettes and a six-pack, since he was here. Not that he drank much, but he’d probably end up having pizza tonight, so the beer was a no-brainer.
While Jenna went off in search of her milk and juice, Hank grabbed his Bud and a carton of Marlboros, then noticed the rack of paperbacks by the magazines. Like a beacon, Jennifer Phillips jumped out at him, emblazoned in metallic hot pink across the entire upper half of the bright-green book cover. He plucked it off the rack, caught phrases like kick-ass and steamy and pulse-pounding before turning to the inside back cover, where a black-and-white Jenna—in makeup, her hair softly waved around her face and shoulders—smiled back at him. He tried to think of Jenna in terms of kick-ass and steamy. He couldn’t.
“You ever read one of her books before?”
Hank tore his attention away from Jenna’s picture to look over at Angel Creekwater wedged behind the counter. An institution at the Git ’n’ Go for probably twenty-five years, the roly-poly woman’s straight black hair was pulled back so severely the corners of her eyes practically reached her ears, from which dangled a collection of brightly colored seed beads and feathers and other assorted doo-dads passing themselves off as earrings.
“Nope.” Hank checked over his shoulder to make sure Jenna wasn’t within earshot, then raised the book. “She any good?”
Angel shrugged; bowling-ball bosoms shimmied underneath her brown smock. It struck Hank that her pooched-out lips were nearly the same color as Jenna’s name on the cover. “She’s okay. If you like that sort of thing.”
Wondering what Angel considered “that sort of thing,” Hank quickly paid for his purchases, slipping the paperback into the bag with the cigarettes just as a familiar voice rumbled, “Hey—they let you out on good behavior?” behind him.
Without even looking, Hank threw up his left hand, knocking off his brother Cal’s cowboy hat in one smooth motion.
“Jerk!” Cal bent down and snatched his hat off the floor. “And who asked you?” he said to Angel, who was shaking with laughter. Cal rammed his hat back down over his wavy light-brown hair, then thunked his own six-pack up on the counter, reaching around to his back pocket for his wallet. “Been meaning to call you,” he said to Hank, handing Angel a twenty. “Finally got around to sorting through some of those boxes up in the attic and came across a whole bunch of old pictures of us as kids, and Mama and Daddy. You should come over, see if there’s any you want.”
The family farm had been left to all three brothers—Hank, Cal and Ryan—but Cal, who’d turned the place into a thriving horse farm, was in the process of buying Hank and Ryan out. For the past several years, he’d been making noises about sorting through all the junk in the attic, but it was only in the last little while that he’d begun to make any headway.
Hank shook his head. “Can’t imagine why I’d want any of that stuff.”
Cal pocketed the change Angel handed him, his green eyes darkening. “And damned if I’m just gonna toss it without you and Ryan at least giving it a look-see. If you don’t want it after that, fine, but you can at least get your butt out to the farm and…oh! Excuse me, ma’am!”
Cal flashed a smile for Jenna, who’d come up behind them while they’d been talking. As smoothly as Hank had knocked Cal’s hat off a minute before, his brother now reached out and relieved Jenna of the basket suspended from her left hand, weighted down with a gallon of skim milk and a carton of orange juice. Cal was a notorious flirt. And by all accounts a damn good one, too. Something about that stupid, dimpled grin of his just had women eating right out of his hand.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before—”
“Knock it off, Cal. She’s too…smart for you.” Jenna’s eyes darted to his, that almost-smile playing on her lips, but Hank told himself there was no way she could have known he’d nearly said “old” instead of “smart.”
“No such thing,” Cal said, that dumb grin of his still in place.
Hank blew out a sigh. “Jenna Stanton, my much younger brother Cal. Jenna’s staying out at the Double Arrow for a while.”
Cal’s hat lifted up a good inch to accommodate his raised eyebrows. “That a fact?”
Hank glowered at him, but Jenna just said, “Nice to meet you, Cal,” as she swiped her card through the little box at the front of the counter. Apparently, hunky young cowboys with dumb smiles and dimples didn’t do it for her. And amazingly enough, Cal took the hint. Now there was a first.
“Nice to meet you, too, Ms. Stanton,” he said, touching two fingers to his hat brim. Then, six-pack in hand, he pointed to Hank. “Remember now, you’re gonna come over and go through that stuff.”
“I never said—”
But then he was gone and everybody was paid up, so he supposed there was nothing for it but to go on back. The ride was a mostly silent one, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Except, after he dropped Jenna off, her scent stayed in the truck.
Some time later, after he’d finished up scraping the shingles off one of the cottages and the Petersons in number 10 had checked out and some salesman or somebody from Wichita had checked in, and after he’d decided going back out for pizza wasn’t worth the effort so he’d just heat up some beans and franks instead, he went for a cigarette and discovered the pack was empty. So it wasn’t until then, when he dumped the Marlboros out on his bed and Jenna’s novel had come tumbling out with it, that he remembered the book.
Settling back at his dinette table with his meal, he popped open one of the Buds, forked in a bite of beans and, chewing, started to read.

Blair looked up from her plate of vegetarian pasta and said, “Then Libby told me she sometimes has to take care of her five brothers all by herself. And she’s my age! Does that stink or what?”
Jenna dropped a lemon slice into her glass of bottled water and gave Blair a reproachful look as she sat back down. “Actually, I think it’s pretty neat that she helps her father like that.” As Blair rolled her eyes, Jenna asked, “What happened to Libby’s mom?”
Blair swiped a hank of hair behind her ear, weeded out two microscopic pieces of onion which she banished to the rim of her bowl, and shoveled in a bite of pasta. “She died suddenly about two years ago,” she said, chewing. “A blood clot or something, Libby wasn’t real specific. So, like, we have this common bond, y’know?”
Ever since Libby’s father, Sam Frazier, had dropped Blair off a couple hours ago, the girl had been going on practically non-stop about her day’s adventures. Jenna couldn’t quite tell whether Blair had actually had a good time as much as she’d just been grateful for the diversion. Jenna had only met Libby briefly, and while she seemed like a nice enough child, Jenna couldn’t exactly see Blair bonding with someone so different from her other friends. Except then Blair asked if she could go back to Libby’s the next day, that Sam had already said it was okay, and Jenna thought, then again—what harm could there be in a summer friendship? Jenna had had a couple of those, when she’d gone to visit her mother’s parents in Virginia as a child. And maybe, if Blair found herself coming to visit again on a regular basis, it would be nice for her to have someone her own age to pal around with—
Her stomach cramped.
As much as Jenna tried to concentrate on her niece’s prattling, her mind kept meandering back to Hank. And everything thinking about him meant. And now…oh, this was probably stupid, but…well, when she’d seen that both Hank and his brother Cal had six-packs, she couldn’t help but wonder if there might be a problem with alcoholism in the family. Granted, she was probably just overreacting, but having lived with the effects of her sister’s chronic substance abuse, she doubted whether anyone would fault her for being too cautious.
Then again, she was already beginning to see things—little things—that gave her hope. Not his appearance, certainly. Or, most of the time, his attitude. But the man did read. And listen to classical music. And although he tended toward acerbity, there was a sense of humor there, too. And, maybe…a smattering of protectiveness, buried under all that grief and bitterness?
She thought back to the scene in the convenience store, the brothers’ interaction. Years of observing human nature for her work had made Jenna a fairly good judge of character, and while she guessed Hank and Cal didn’t spend much time together, neither did they hate each other. Which meant family ties, though perhaps tenuous, were at least intact. And after all, Hank Logan had been a cop for more than fifteen years. Not generally a career choice for the self-centered.
Yet, whenever she thought about telling Hank the truth, something inside said, No. Not yet. Not until you’re absolutely sure. As whacked as her sister had been, Jenna still felt she owed Sandy at least the benefit of the doubt. Maybe there was a valid reason she’d refused to tell Hank Logan he had a child. And maybe family loyalty was a lousy thing to base such a momentous decision on, but it was all she had.
She glanced across at her niece, who looked almost happy for the first time in several days, and a bittersweet smile tilted her lips. No, Blair was all she had. And she wasn’t about to share her with anyone she didn’t feel in her soul she could trust.
Without any reservations.

“So…your aunt and uncle raised you?” Libby asked the next day.
“Yeah.”
Libby had finished all her chores, and since this was one of the days the part-time housekeeper came, her dad had told her—with a wink—to go on with Blair ’cause who needed two giggling girls hanging around the house? Blair thought Libby’s dad, Sam, was nice. Even though he had the farm to run and all those kids to take care of, it seemed like he was always laughing and smiling and teasing the kids. Not grumpy all the time like Mr. Logan. Oh, Libby had said her dad had been pretty sad for a long time after her mother had died, but that he’d really tried not to let it show. And that it was probably a good thing, him having all these kids, so he wouldn’t miss their mom so much.
That’s what Blair had thought, too, after Uncle Phil died, that it was a good thing Jenna had her to keep her from getting lonely. The funny feeling came back, like a weird tickle in the middle of her chest.
“I guess I think of Jenna more like my mom, since she’s always been around.”
Since there wasn’t another bike Blair’s size, the two girls were walking, following the road around to where it would eventually meet up with the old highway, where the motel was. Libby bent over to pick a wild daisy, which she now twirled around and around in her fingers as they walked. “So you get along pretty good with her?”
“Yeah. I guess. ’Cept when she’s in one of her ‘no, you can’t do that, you’re too young’ moods.”
Libby let out a sigh, like she understood, then fluttered the hem of her baggy white T-shirt—they were dressed practically the same, in big shirts and denim shorts, their hair pulled back into ponytails—to let some air up inside. It was so hot. Libby had said it hadn’t rained in more than a month.
Libby had also said she didn’t like wearing anything too tight since she’d started to get breasts, ’cause the boys kept staring at her. A problem Blair said she wished she had, until Libby pointed out how much she hated bouncing when she ran and besides, they hurt like anything when she got her period. “But if it makes you feel any better,” she added, probably because Blair hadn’t looked all that convinced, “I knew some girl at church who was flat as a pancake, but then she grew into a 38C over the summer when she was fourteen. So you never know.”
It was weird, how Blair thought Libby was so pretty and perfect—well, except for her crooked teeth, but even they weren’t that bad—yet Libby said she’d give anything to be tall and skinny like Blair, and to have red hair like hers, that her own was just this boring old brown.
“What happened to your real mom?” Libby now said, climbing over a post-and-rail fence to plop down in a shady area about halfway between the farm and the motel. The housekeeper had given the girls a sack filled with sandwiches and fruit. And bottles of water. Libby had said her dad didn’t want the kids drinking a lot of pop and stuff. “I mean, how’d she die?”
“Oh.” Blair followed her, clumsily, dusting off her butt before sinking onto the grass beside her, which gave her time to decide how much of the truth to reveal. “A drug overdose.”
Libby stopped rummaging in the lunch bag to look up. “No way?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh. Wow.” Libby pulled out an apple and swung the bag toward Blair, who shook her head. She was too hot to eat. Libby, however, took a huge bite of the green apple, chewing thoughtfully for a couple seconds. Then she said, “I knew a boy over in Pryor who died from drugs. My friend Heather’s cousin.” She crunched into the fruit again, talking around the mouthful. “I never knew a grown-up who died from them, though.”
“Rock stars and stuff die from them all the time.”
“Oh, yeah, huh?” Libby made a face at the apple. “Yuck. It’s all mushy.” When she reared back to hurl it into the cornfield, Blair could see the high, round bumps of Libby’s breasts. She didn’t care what Libby said, she wanted some of her own. Maybe if she looked more like a woman, Jenna would stop treating her like a child.
“I’m never gonna do drugs,” Libby said. “They’re stupid. Besides, I wanna live to be a hundred….” She grabbed Blair’s arm, cocking her head. “You hear that?”
“What?”
“Coming from the blackberry bushes over there…c’mon!”
Libby scrambled to her feet and took off. Blair followed, thinking Libby had gone nuts…until she, too, heard the frightened whimpering. Seconds later, they reached the wide clot of bushes strangling the fence farther down the road; Libby fell to her knees, then let out a small cry. “It’s a puppy! He’s all caught up in the bushes!”
“Where? Let me see!” Blair dropped to all fours as well, her insides pinching at the sight of the black pup, so scared you could see the whites of his eyes. His high-pitched yips made Blair feel sick.
“We’ve gotta get him out of there!” Without thinking, Blair grabbed for the branches to pull them away, only to let out a shriek of pain herself. “Ouch! Dammit!”
“We’ve gotta get help,” Libby said. “If we try to get him out ourselves, we’ll end up worse off’n him.” She sat back on her knees and squinted over her shoulder. “It’s closer to the motel than back to the farm—c’mon!”
Before Blair could protest, Libby had already taken off toward the Double Arrow, giving Blair no choice but to follow. Her feet pummeling the dirt, Libby looked over as they ran. “Your aunt know you cuss?”
“Are you kidding?” Blair said, Libby’s breathless giggles mingling with the puppy’s rapidly fading squeals of pain and fear.

Jenna had just sat down with her laptop when the girls burst into the cottage, both babbling about a puppy caught in some blackberry bushes and they couldn’t get him out and she needed to come right away and did they have anything they could cut the branches with?
Refusing to let the girls’ panic infect her, Jenna ditched her reading glasses and got up from the table, shoving her feet into her abandoned espadrilles. “I bet Mr. Logan’ll have something we can use—”
“No! Don’t ask him!”
Already at the door, Jenna frowned at Blair. Not that she didn’t see Blair’s point—she could just imagine Hank’s reaction at being asked to rescue a puppy. Still— “I don’t think we have any choice, honey. I don’t even have a pair of gardening gloves, and toenail clippers are no match for blackberry bushes.”
Several minutes later, they found Hank at one of the other cottages, replacing some rotten floorboards in the porch. This time, the girls hung back and let Jenna do the talking. Not surprisingly, Hank frowned. But not for the reasons Jenna would have expected.
“Where is it?” he asked the girls.
“Just down the road a ways,” Libby said, dancing from foot to foot. “You know, where all those bushes are?”
“Yep, sure do.” He hoisted himself to his feet, clunking his hammer back into his toolbox. “Go on back to where he is. I’ll met you there.” Then he stopped, looking directly into first one set of frightened eyes, then the other. “Hey,” he said softly, then reached out and tugged on Libby’s ponytail. “It’s gonna be all right, you hear?”
Libby nodded, then grabbed Blair’s hand—Blair was standing gawking at Hank as if he’d just admitted his Martian citizenship—and yanked her after her.
“You…rescue puppies?” Jenna said, afraid she was gawking nearly as badly as Blair had been.
“From time to time.” Hank grabbed his toolbox and lumbered down the steps. As he passed her, his mouth twitched. “They’re real tasty this time of year.”

By the time Hank got there, Jenna wasn’t sure who was more frantic, the girls or the puppy. Her knees screamed from all the little stones and things embedded in them from kneeling in front of the bushes, as she yammered in baby talk in the vain hope of keeping the poor little thing from wriggling and getting himself even more tangled up. She’d also tried prying apart the branches with a pair of sticks, but they were hopelessly entwined.
“Move over,” grunted a low voice from behind her.
Between the girl’s moans and the pup’s squeals, she hadn’t heard the truck pull up. “Be my guest.”
“Hey, little guy,” Hank said gently, pulling on a pair of thick leather workgloves, then picking up a pair of rose clippers. “How on earth did you manage to get yourself stuck in there?”
All the while he clipped, he prattled to the little dog, who finally quieted down, transfixed by the sound of Hank’s voice. At one point, Jenna glanced over at the girls, on whom that voice seemed to be having a similar effect. Blair, especially, her arms wound over her middle, shot a look at Jenna that was equal parts wonder and confusion. The last branch snipped, Hank reached in for the puppy, cradling the shaking thing in his large, gloved hand, carefully inspecting the tiny black body for injuries. And just as his harsh features softened, as his perpetual frown gave way to a genuine smile when the pup eagerly licked his scruffy chin, so did something inside Jenna.
The girls, naturally, were right there, both cooing and oohing over the little thing. “Is…he okay?” Blair asked, her voice tense with caution, her gaze flicking to Hank’s for only an instant.
“Far as I can tell. A few scratches, maybe, but nothing major. My guess is he’s been abandoned, though. There’s no collar, and he’s pretty skinny.” Cupping the dog’s butt, Hank twisted him around in his hands and looked him in the eye. “You out on your own, Bubba?”
The dog started wagging his tail so hard, he nearly wriggled right out of Hank’s hands. He laughed, then glanced over at Libby, scratching the pup’s ears. “Your daddy’s got some antiseptic we could put on him, doesn’t he?”
“Uh-huh,” Libby said. “But then what?”
Hank looked at the pup, then at the girls, before lifting up the dog and looking him straight in his big, brown eyes. A tiny pink tongue darted out, desperate to make contact with Hank’s nose. This time, Hank’s laughter sent a tingle straight through Jenna, one that settled right at the base of her heart.
“I can’t take him,” Blair said, a little wistfully. “Meringue would have a fit.”
“Not to mention I would,” Jenna thought it prudent to add.
Libby giggled as the pup tried to nibble on her finger. “I can’t take him, either. Daddy says we already have too many pets.”
After a long moment, Hank said, “Well, then. I guess that makes him mine.” He pretended to glower at the girls. “But y’all have to name him. I’m terrible at naming things.”
The girls thought that was a good idea. Then Libby remembered their lunch—apparently that’s what was in the Wal-Mart bag by the side of the road—and thought the pup might like part of her ham sandwich, which he did. Then, of course, they had to take the pup back to Libby’s to show him off and get the antiseptic put on him, even though he was going to be Hank’s dog. After they’d left, Hank offered to drive Jenna back to her cottage, since he said it seemed stupid for her to walk back when he had the truck right here.
The ride took all of two minutes, which wasn’t nearly enough time for Jenna to process even half of her thoughts about what had just happened, let alone all of them. But she did think to ask him why he’d taken the dog.
“Why not?” He scrubbed a hand across his hair, which didn’t do a thing for his coiffure. “Maybe it’s time I had something else to talk to at night besides myself, y’know?”
His words echoed painfully in her own sparsely furnished heart as they pulled up in front of the cottage. Jenna got out of the truck, then turned, her arms tightly tucked over her stomach as she peered back inside through the passenger-side window.
“Thanks,” she said.
Slouched in his seat, his right hand still loosely gripping the steering wheel, Hank looked at her, his brows knotted for a second or two. Then, with a sigh, they relaxed. “I might prefer keeping to myself most of the time, Ms. Stanton, but I’m not an ogre.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m sorry if I gave you that impression.”
After a moment, unable to think of a single, even minimally intelligent thing to say, she nodded, then ran up the porch steps to the relative safety of the cottage, away from the yearning in those dark eyes she doubted he even knew was there. But once back inside, as she stood at the front window, watching him one-handedly steer the truck back down the drive and replaying the past half hour in her head, she knew there was no reason not to tell Hank Logan he had a daughter.
Now all she had to do was figure out how.

The girls had brought the as-yet-unnamed puppy back about an hour later, then stayed to play with him out in front of the office. Which is where they still were, giggling their heads off and generally driving Hank nuts, when Cal showed up, somewhere around four. The door was open, so Hank saw his brother squat down to play with the dog—Cal had always had a way with animals, which is what made him such a damn good horse breeder, Hank supposed—exchange a few words with the girls, then stand and head for the office. Hank also saw a bunch of albums and envelopes and what-all tucked under his brother’s arm.
Oh, Lord.
“Hey.” Wearing that cocky grin of his, Cal walked into the office, plunked his load onto the counter. “You got a dog?”
“Yeah, I got a dog. So?”
“Kinda small, don’t you think?”
“It’ll grow. What’s all this?”
“Ten minutes, Hank. That’s all I’m asking. Just go through it, keep whatever you want, I’ll take back the rest.”
“I don’t want any of it.”
Cal crossed his arms, his gaze almost fierce underneath his hat brim. “This is your family history, dammit,” he said, keeping his voice low. “It’s not gonna kill you to keep a couple mementos of it. And you wouldn’t believe some of the stuff I found up in the attic. Stuff I sure don’t remember ever seeing. Take this, for instance…” He riffled through the pile and extracted a tattered brown envelope, out of which he pulled an old tinted photograph in a cardboard photographer’s frames. Cal looked at it for a moment, then turned it around so Hank could see. “You ever see this before? It’s a picture of Mama when she was fourteen. I only ever knew her with gray hair, so this was a shock….”
It was a shock, all right. But for very different reasons. While Hank stood there, paralyzed, staring at the photograph, Blair came in, hugging the pup to her chest. “Libby’s gotta go home, and I said I’d walk her, so is it okay to leave the puppy here with you? I think he’s getting pretty tired.”
Slowly, Hank forced himself to look up from the photograph…into a face uncannily like the image in his hand. As he did, he caught Cal’s frown at his obviously flummoxed expression, then saw his brother’s gaze dart to Blair. Hank finally found his voice, told Blair, sure, go ahead and leave the pup. After she left, Cal pried the photo from Hank’s grip. “Holy sh—” He looked at Hank, confusion swimming in his eyes. “That is totally weird…Hank? Hey—you okay?”
Hank grabbed the photo out of Cal’s hand. “Watch the dog,” he muttered on his way out the door.

The pounding on the cottage door sent the cat streaking into her bedroom and shaved five years off Jenna’s life. Then Hank roared her name and irritation gave way to stark terror, that Blair was hurt, that a forest fire was bearing down on the motel—
She yanked open the door, recoiling at the fury blazing in Hank’s eyes. Before she got her mouth open, he thrust a photograph into her hand.
“That’s my mother, when she was fourteen. Look like anybody you know?”
Jenna blanched: it was all there—the red hair, the freckles, even the shape of the eyelids. “Oh dear God,” she whispered. “This could be—”
“Yeah. So how about you tell me what the hell is going on here?”

Chapter 4
Jenna swore, nausea swamping her as she sank onto the edge of the sofa, staring at the photograph. Look at him, her brain directed. Her eyes refused to obey.
“This isn’t exactly playing out the way I’d hoped it would,” she said.
“And what way might that be?”
His sarcasm knifed through her. Unable to breathe, to think, she looked up into a bitter, unforgiving gaze that turned her blood to ice. And yet from somewhere came the strength to bear the brunt of his anger.
“Look, you’ve got every right to be mad. Just not at me.”
“That’s for me to decide. Well?”
“Where’s Blair? I can’t risk her hearing any of this. Not yet.”
“She’s gone back to Libby’s for a minute.” He crossed his arms. “So talk fast.”
Still hanging on to the picture, Jenna got up, telling herself in a few minutes the worst would be over, that she should be grateful the decision had been wrested from her hands. Her mouth dry as dust, she went over to the sink for a glass of water. “It’s very possible that Blair’s your daughter.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“When my sister died,” she said, filling her glass from the tap, “she left a diary. According to an entry in it dated nearly fourteen years ago, you and she had a brief affair. An affair which left her pregnant.”
“That’s nuts. I never dated anyone named Stanton.”
“Not Stanton. That’s my married name. Hollins. Sandy Hollins.” As she gulped down her water, she watched him process this information. “Ring a bell?”
“Yeah. I remember Sandy. But you’ve got no proof I’m Blair’s father.”
“No, I don’t.” She picked up the photo from where she’d set it on the counter and handed it to him. “But you do.”
His gaze shot to hers; Jenna ached for the confusion in his eyes. “So why didn’t she tell me she was pregnant?”
“Sandy didn’t tell anyone she was pregnant. Until she showed up on my parents’ doorstep in her eighth month.” She paused. “She’d been using. The baby almost didn’t make it.”
He stared at her, hard, for several seconds, then walked over to the window, staring at his mother’s photograph in the light. There were a hundred things Jenna could have said. Not a single one of them would have made a bit of sense. So she waited.
“And you didn’t know about me until you read this diary?”
“No. I swear.”
“But that was…what was it you said? A few months ago?”
She almost smiled. “You don’t miss a single detail, do you?”
He didn’t smile back. “That’s why they paid me the big bucks.”
“It took a while to locate you,” she said and left it at that.
Hank was quiet for a moment or two, although Jenna could sense the tension writhing inside him. “Thought women were real funny about diaries. Reading someone else’s, I mean.”
“I wouldn’t have touched it while Sandy was alive, even if I’d known of its existence. But my sister was an enigma, to put it mildly.” She sighed. “Look, Blair thinks Sandy died from an overdose. Which is technically true. What she doesn’t know is that it was apparently deliberate.” Hank swore; Jenna went on. “So I thought maybe the diary would give me an insight or two into who the hell she was. Why she was so obviously unhappy. The last thing I expected was to stumble across a name she refused to reveal for thirteen years.”
Hank set the photograph on the table, then dragged his hand down his face. “I’m having a little trouble here…”

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