To love and support…no matter what

As a high school vice principal, Molly Callahan is used to being the one with all the solutions. Not this time. Her teenage daughter’s pregnancy has Molly questioning her own choices and unable to make the tough decisions. Figuring out what’s right and wrong isn’t so simple anymore, and now, more than ever, she needs someone to trust.

Little does she expect that person to be Richard Ward. Their teenagers’ dilemma has forced them to meet, but something much more powerful is pulling them together. This is hardly the time for Richard and Molly to think about themselves…yet she can’t stop this attraction. Letting herself count on him is one thing. Letting herself fall for him? That’s guaranteed to make things very complicated.

This no longer seemed like a good idea

At the sound of the bell over the door ringing, Molly swiveled in her seat. The new arrival was Richard Ward himself, tall, imposingly handsome, glancing around the sandwich shop until he spotted her at the table in the back corner. And, damn it, there was that loose-hipped walk that always stirred something in her.

She’d been the one to suggest they meet for lunch, completely separate from their kids.

“The waitress left you a menu,” she said inanely.

He nodded and pulled out a chair next to her. He took up way more than his fair share of space, and that, too, unsettled Molly; she was a big enough woman, she was taller than most men with whom she dealt.

Oh, get a grip! You’re not an adolescent. But feeling a lot like one right now.

“Mr. Ward, thank you for coming.” This is Trevor’s father. Trevor’s father, Trevor’s father. She’d chant it as many times as she had to.

This was not a date.

Dear Reader,

I love to put heroes and heroines through horrific tribulations I’ve never experienced (and never want to, thanks anyway). I’ve got to admit, No Matter What hit way closer to home for me than my usual stories do. For one thing, once upon a time I was a teenage girl who had passing thoughts about what a pregnancy would do to my life. The idea of telling my parents any such thing was unthinkable. Wow.

I’m not sure my father ever took seriously the idea that his little girl ever had sex, even after I was married and produced two children. As it happens, both those children were girls. Who became teenagers. Who dated. My youngest had a boyfriend who drove a fancy pickup truck. He’d bring her home and they’d sit out there in the driveway forever and ever. Half an hour would pass. I can’t tell you how desperate I was to march out there and shine a flashlight in the window. What stopped me (besides my desire not to utterly humiliate my daughter) was the common sense realization that they had already been gone all evening, doing heaven knows what. If they were going to do that, it probably wouldn’t be when parked in front of her house with her mother pacing inside.

We survived those teenage years, and I’m proud to report that both my girls graduated from high school and college without getting pregnant.

Fact is, pregnancy is an ever-present terror for any mother of a teenage girl. This book was triggered when it occurred to me that a teenage pregnancy wouldn’t be any picnic for the parent of the boy who is responsible, either. Hmm...

And I’ve got to tell you, I love teenagers in all their sulkiness, defiance and amazing leaps to maturity. So enjoy meeting Caitlyn and her mom, and Trevor and his dad!

Janice Kay Johnson

PS—I enjoy hearing from readers! Please contact me c/o Harlequin Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road,Toronto, ON M3B 3K9 Canada.

No Matter What

Janice Kay Johnson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The author of more than sixty books for children and adults, Janice Kay Johnson writes Harlequin Superromance novels about love and family—about the way generations connect and the power our earliest experiences have on us throughout life. Her 2007 novel Snowbound won a RITA® Award from Romance Writers of America for Best Contemporary Series Romance. A former librarian, Janice raised two daughters in a small rural town north of Seattle, Washington. She loves to read and is an active volunteer and board member for Purrfect Pals, a no-kill cat shelter.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

MOLLY CALLAHAN STUDIED the boy slumped sullenly in a straight chair facing her desk and wished desperately she could hand off dealing with him to someone else. Anyone else.

She liked her job most of the time, although discipline was her least favorite facet of it. No choice, though. The high school was small enough that she was the only vice principal. She gave brief, wistful thought to steering Trevor Ward and his father, when he arrived for an emergency conference, into Principal Marta Brightwell’s office. Unfortunately, Marta’s strength was making everyone feel really optimistic about whatever was under discussion, at least as long as they remained in her presence. A fine quality, but one that failed to solve all those everyday problems that were Molly’s bailiwick.

Even so…that’s what she should do. Her feelings toward this particular boy—belligerent, defiant, aggressive—were not dispassionate. Considering the fight she and her daughter, Cait, had had only last night over Trevor, Molly could admit, if only to herself, that she wished he had never transferred to her school. It would be really good if he slouched out beside his father and never came back. She didn’t exactly wish him ill. She’d be satisfied if Daddy decided to transfer him to a private school or ship him home to Mom. But she wanted him gone. Gone from her life, and especially gone from Caitlyn’s.

She should be trying to understand what was throwing him into turmoil, but she couldn’t make herself care. Knots were climbing atop knots in her neck, her head throbbed, she expected Trevor’s father to arrive any minute and she had not the slightest idea what she was going to say to him.

Trevor held an ice pack over one eye, but the trickle of blood emerging from a nostril was turning into a stream. Molly sighed, snatched a handful of tissues from a box and went around the desk to thrust them into his hand.

“Your nose is bleeding again.”

He grunted and pressed the wad of tissues to his nose.

“If it gets any worse I’ll need to send you to the nurse’s office.” Which she had not done, because the victim of Trevor’s rage was currently occupying one of the cubicles there, waiting for his mother to pick him up. Aaron Latter was in considerably worse shape than Trevor. Molly could only be glad he’d gotten a few blows in, at least.

Which was unworthy of her, she reflected, surreptitiously massaging her temple. That said, she’d be talking to Aaron’s parents later, too. One more thing to look forward to.

“Trevor, I’m going to ask you to wait out in front. I’ll need to speak to your dad privately. Mrs. Cruz will help you if you get to feeling worse.”

The stare he gave her from the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut chilled her. It was almost emotionless, and yet…full of something. She had never before been afraid of a student, but at that moment she came close.

And her daughter had a massive crush on this boy.

Boy? As he rose slowly to his feet, she realized part of the problem. Seventeen years old, a senior, he didn’t look like a boy. He looked like a man. He was already six foot three. Although he hadn’t yet achieved his full bulk, he had broad shoulders and more muscles than most of the male teachers had ever dreamed of possessing. He must shave daily and at two o’clock in the afternoon already had a dark shadow on his jaw. His eyes were so dark, brown iris melted into pupil. When he gave someone a black look, it was black.

He was also, unfortunately, exceedingly handsome. The minute he’d walked in the front doors the first day of school, he’d turned every female head in the building. Molly had seen even a couple of the younger women teachers flush at the sight of him. With his physique, dark good looks and sullen temperament, he was the Heathcliff of West Fork High School.

Didn’t it figure that his brooding stare had turned to Cait, Molly’s bright, perky, academically advanced, sunny-tempered, beautiful, fifteen-year-old daughter.

Molly realized that she was grinding her teeth together as she escorted Trevor out of her office. No wonder her head was throbbing.

Once he lowered himself to one of the visitors’ chairs, she took the tissues from his hand and inspected his nose. “It seems to have let up,” she said briskly. “Mrs. Cruz, please call Jeannie if Trevor’s nosebleed worsens.”

“Of course, Ms. Callahan.” The school secretary looked past Molly. “Ah…Trevor’s father is here.”

Molly turned, and felt her heart sink. If it got any lower, she thought grimly, her stomach would start digesting it. A distinct possibility, since she’d missed lunch.

Trevor’s father, striding down the hall toward her, looked like Trevor would when he finished maturing. If he was lucky. Mr. Ward also didn’t appear to be any happier than his son, and it was Molly who was the target of that angry, frustrated stare, not the son who deserved it.

Her favorite kind of parent—the “my son can’t possibly be responsible” variety. The “I am pissed at you for interrupting my day and attempting to hold my kid accountable” variety.

She stiffened. How fortunate that she was in the mood to deal with him.

“Mr. Ward,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m Vice Principal Molly Callahan. Thank you for coming.”

* * *

BARELY THREE WEEKS into the school year, and he’d already been yanked from his day to sit down with the vice principal to discuss Trevor’s behavioral shortcomings. As if he hadn’t noticed them.

Richard had become reacquainted with his son precisely four weeks ago, when he picked him up at the airport after a hysterical call from Trevor’s mother, Alexa, who’d told him he “had” to take Trevor because she’d had enough. Richard’s eyebrows had risen over that. Trevor’s grades were top-notch, he was a superb athlete and this past summer he’d worked with kids at the Boys & Girls Club while coaching summer basketball. He was an all-around high achiever.

Richard would have loved to raise both his kids. He’d missed having them this summer. One of the worst days of his life had been when Alexa broke it to him that she and husband number two were moving to California. At least he’d have Trevor for this last year, before he headed off to college.

Yet shipping him back to his mother was looking better by the day, he thought grimly.

With one swift, encompassing glance, he took in his son, who held an ice pack to one eye and sat slumped low in the chair. His head was bowed. He didn’t raise it to look at his father, not even when the woman standing beside him said, “Mr. Ward.”

Son of a bitch, Richard thought, ashamed to feel ready to kill the messenger as well as the creature that inhabited his son’s body, but unable to smile at her and say, “Great to meet you.”

Unlocking his jaw took some effort. “Ms. Callahan.”

Her voice was familiar; they’d spoken on the phone briefly last week after Trevor’s first fight. She had a hell of a voice, with a husky timbre that would stir any man’s interest. Beyond that initial reaction, he hadn’t given it much thought. Ms. Callahan—the Ms. was said with militant emphasis—was likely a rigid, cast-iron bitch. On the phone she’d been terse and had nothing helpful to say. He’d been able to tell she was disappointed to have to admit that she had as yet been unable to assign responsibility for the fight to either boy.

“However,” she had declared, “unless a fight begins with a clearly one-sided assault, both students need to be penalized. We have zero tolerance for fighting.” That time, she’d suspended Trevor and the other boy each for two days.

If she expelled Trevor now, what the hell was he supposed to do with him?

They were in her office before he really saw her and then it was a mild shock. Molly Callahan was young to be in administration—surely not older than her mid-thirties. She was also…okay, not beautiful, but something. Sexy, he decided, if you discounted the steely glint in her gray eyes. Tall for a woman, maybe five-ten. Possibly a little plump by current standards, which weren’t his. Generous hips, even more generous breasts, sensational legs that weren’t stick-thin and wavy hair of a particularly deep shade of auburn. Natural, if her creamy skin was any indication.

She circled around her desk and gestured toward a chair. “Please, have a seat, Mr. Ward.”

He stiffened at her tone of voice. He was not one of her students.

“I gather Trevor was involved in another fight,” he said curtly.

“Trevor unquestionably started this one. For no apparent reason. The other young man accidentally jostled Trevor in a crowded hallway. He turned around swinging. One of our teachers observed the entire altercation and described the ‘flare of rage’ on Trevor’s face as frightening. Perhaps you can explain what’s going on with your son.”

His jaw had gone into lockdown again as she spoke. For the first time it occurred to him that he might be ill equipped to be a full-time parent. He had never, not once, gone to a parent-teacher conference. Yeah, he admired report cards, but he hadn’t been there to set rules for homework, to do flash cards, to fold his arms and say, “You knew what you had to do this week to earn that trip to the zoo, and you blew it, buddy.”

Not my fault.

No, it wasn’t, but resentment that he hadn’t had the chance welled up in him until he was all but choking on it.

Ms. Callahan’s ill-disguised disdain and dislike rubbed him the wrong way.

“Trevor is a seventeen-year-old boy. If you’ve looked at his records, you’ll find that at his previous high school—an urban high school with a significantly larger class than here in West Fork—he was in the running to become valedictorian. Colleges were scouting him for both football and basketball. Here he’s transferred for his senior year, and it appears West Fork High School is already failing him.” Richard knew he wasn’t being fair, but right this minute he didn’t damn well care. He didn’t appreciate anything about Ms. Callahan’s attitude.

Her back was so stiff he could tell it wasn’t meeting her cushioned office chair. Her lips thinned. “Trevor has been uncooperative and unpleasant since the day he started class. I need to know if he was angry at having to leave his former school to come here. Was he, for example, sent to live with you as a disciplinary measure, Mr. Ward?”

“No,” he said shortly, if not altogether honestly. “His mother has recently separated from her current husband.” Her third. “I believe Trevor was reasonably fond of him, but hadn’t lived with him so many years the attachment was deep. I’m aware that moving to a new school for your senior year is hardly ideal, but he didn’t object.”

They glared at each other. Her eyes, Richard decided, were closer to gunmetal gray.

“In other words,” she said icily, “you’d like to blame the teachers and students here for somehow, in a startlingly swift few weeks, driving your son to rage that inspires him to attack another boy without provocation.”

At his sides, Richard’s hands flexed briefly into fists that he forced himself to relax. I’m not handling this well. But goddamn it, couldn’t she say something helpful? Offer some guidance? Where was the school psychologist? Or didn’t they have one?

“No,” he said reluctantly. “Of course I don’t. Trevor’s attitude hasn’t been great at home, either.” Major understatement. “All I can tell you is that I’m trying to get to the root of it. I’d appreciate some sense that you and his teachers care about Trevor rather than seeing him as nothing but a disciplinary problem.”

Fire lit her face. She planted her hands on her desk and half rose from her chair to lean toward him, apparently calling on the greater height to emphasize her authority. “Perhaps it hasn’t occurred to you, Mr. Ward, that there were two boys involved a week ago. Two boys today, one of whom is likely on his way, as we speak, to the emergency room. I care about my students. Trevor was the aggressor today.” She straightened, on her feet, and held up a hand to silence him when he opened his mouth. “My first obligation is the safety of all students at this school. Do I care? Yes. I also care about the boy Trevor battered bloody this afternoon. I am this close—” she pinched her thumb and forefinger nearly together “ —to expelling Trevor. Because I care, I am only suspending him for the remainder of the week. However, let me make clear to you, as I did to Trevor, that if there is any repeat of his aggression, I will have no choice but to expel him from this school. Do I make myself clear?”

Somewhere midspeech he’d risen to his feet, too, so that he could tower over her.

“Yeah,” he said, “you do. Thank you for your consideration, Ms. Callahan. I’m moved by your obvious concern for my son. So moved, I’ll be sure to mention it to the principal. Possibly the superintendent, too. John is a friend of mine.”

His threats, issued in a gritty voice, affected her not at all. She continued to gaze stonily at him. He nodded and walked out. This time his son let the hand holding the ice pack drop and looked at his dad. If there was something worried or even childish on his face, it was fleeting and replaced by his now-current sullenness.

“We’re going home,” Richard said, and kept walking, leaving Trevor to fall in behind him or not.

Good. Great. His meeting with Vice Principal Callahan had made him sullen, too, and about as mature, behaving like the average middle schooler, forget high school.

And now he had to figure out how to be the parent.

* * *

CAITLYN SNATCHED A carrot that her mother had just peeled and crunched into it. Molly pretended to slap at her hand but then took another carrot from the crisper and began to peel. She watched with pleasure as Cait plopped her book bag on the breakfast bar, hopped on a stool and hooked her feet on it. Orange bits flew as she chewed and talked.

“Wow, I don’t know what his problem is, but today Mr. Sanchez was a total—” She grinned at her mother’s raised eyebrow. They’d agreed years ago that she could express honest opinions of her teachers but not use profanity or obscenities to do so. “Jerk. He was a jerk today. He was in some kind of snit because nobody, like nobody, passed his stupid quiz. Of course it’s our fault. Did it occur to him that maybe he failed to successfully teach a concept? I mean, duh.” Another enthusiastic crunch. “So he tried again, and I still don’t get it. Who needs advanced algebra anyway?”

“Engineers, I’d guess. Mathematicians, computer geeks, scientists.”

“You know this for a fact.”

Molly laughed. “Well, no. I confess I got an A in second-year algebra and can no longer remember a single thing I learned. I thank God on my knees daily that you haven’t needed my help.”

“About that.” Cait reached for the zipper of her backpack. “See, there’s this thing I don’t get…” She giggled at her mother’s expression. “I’ll figure it out myself, thank you.”

She rambled on for several minutes. Molly would have basked in the pleasure of having Cait talking to her, really talking, if she didn’t know that soon—any minute—she herself would have to drop a bomb on the mood. Obviously, Cait and Trevor had not spoken since he’d slunk out at his father’s side without finishing the day.

She would have waited until after dinner if it weren’t for the possibility of the phone ringing any minute. Unless Richard Ward had suspended his son’s phone privileges? Yeah, sure.

Cait finished telling Molly about a friend who was being such an idiot about this guy who treated her like garbage, and why would she put up with that?

Usually Molly would have commented. Instead, she took a minute to look at her daughter and think, If only you knew how much I love you.

She’d been so in love with her one-and-only child since the day she was born. It almost seemed unfair that Caitlyn was darn near perfect. Molly had been waiting for years for the other shoe to drop. Life was never this good. People weren’t this good.

But there she sat, delicate face open and cheerful. She had big blue eyes and a cloud of wavy, strawberry-blond hair. Thanks to her father’s genes, she was both shorter than her mother and finer boned. She gave an impression of fragility that her years in dance belied. Cait could be tough.

Bracing herself, Molly stirred the homemade chili simmering on the stove. “Cait, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Her daughter tilted her head. “Wow. You sound serious.”

“It’s about Trevor.”

Cait stiffened.

Get it out quick. “There was another incident involving Trevor. Aaron Latter bumped Trevor in the hall between classes, and Trevor attacked him. He hurt Aaron badly. Mr. Whitlock had to pull Trevor off Aaron. I know how you feel about Trevor—”

“No, you don’t.” Cait was already scrambling off the stool. “What did you do? You didn’t kick him out, did you?”

“I suspended him. You know I had no choice.”

“Oh, right,” Caitlyn said in an ugly voice. The hostility that filled her eyes was shocking. “Did you even ask him his side?”

“He has no interest in talking to me.”

“Gee, I wonder why that is? God, Mom. How could you?”

Molly continued with her dinner preparations. She’d tell any parent not to overreact to teenage drama. Be matter-of-fact, she would say. Explain, but do not justify yourself. Be a reasonable adult. A role model.

She reached for the olive oil. “You know school policy on fighting. This is his second infraction within a week. And from what I’m told, this wasn’t a fight. It was an assault.”

“Oh, that’s bull!” her darling daughter snarled. She grabbed her book bag and in a violent movement flung it toward a chair in the dining nook. It skidded across the seat and thudded to the floor. “Aaron Latter is a sneak and a liar.”

“Cait, there were witnesses. Lots of witnesses.” Explain but do not justify, echoed in her brain. Yes, but where do I draw the line?

“You know he didn’t ‘bump’ Trev by accident, don’t you? Aaron has been coming on to me. He’s practically stalking me. Trevor told him to back off, all right? So the little passive-aggressive creep thought he could get away with smashing into him in the hall, like oh, oops.”

It sounded reasonable. It might even be true. It also might not be.

“You’ve never mentioned having a problem with Aaron,” she said mildly. She sliced a tomato carefully, aware she was clenching the knife handle too tightly.

Cait wasn’t nearly as pretty when she was sneering. “I don’t tell you everything, you know.”

“I thought we had a good relationship.”

Cait’s pointed chin shot up. “I thought we did, too. Until you decided you hated the only guy I’ve ever really liked. The only one who’s ever really liked me.”

The reasonable adult broke. “Okay, now that’s ridiculous. Boys have been trailing around behind you since you were five years old. Remember Ben whatever his name was, who asked you to marry him?”

“That was kindergarten!”

Molly talked right over her. “You were the only girl in Mrs. Carlson’s fifth-grade class to have a boyfriend. Who wrote you poetry.”

“We were children! Like it’s the same.”

“Middle school dances,” Molly continued inexorably. “I chaperoned them. Don’t imply you weren’t popular. You were the only freshman in high school invited to the senior prom—”

“Which you didn’t let me go to.”

“You were fourteen years old! He was eighteen.” The knife was still clutched in her hand, but she’d given up slicing.

“I didn’t care about him, okay?” Cait’s pale, redhead’s skin was a furious red. “I love Trevor, and you’re…you’re persecuting him because he likes me, too!” She shoved one of the stools and it crashed to its side on the hardwood floor.

“Caitlyn Callahan!”

“I’m through listening to you,” Cait yelled, and raced from the room. The front door opened and banged shut.

Molly let the knife fall to the cutting board, braced her hands on the tiled countertop and closed her eyes.

Dear God, she asked, why didn’t we get this over with when she was thirteen? Why did raging hormones have to hit now?

Easy answer: Trevor Ward.

“I do not hate Trevor,” Molly said aloud. “I am more adult than that.” She thought.

* * *

“TALK TO ME,” HIS father said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

The anger that filled Trevor 24/7 rose like a storm-driven wave ready to crash on the beach. Trevor didn’t know how to handle these violent impulses, this deep hunger to make everyone else hurt as much as he did. He couldn’t have formed all this hostility and sense of betrayal into words even if he’d wanted to, and he didn’t.

“Nothing’s going on.”

His father sighed. “Have you ever been in a fight before last week?”

He shrugged.

Dad had just slapped dinner on the table—a frozen lasagna nuked in the microwave, salad from a bag and presliced garlic bread, also nuked. He hadn’t said a word during the drive home. When they’d walked in the door, he’d said, “Go to your room and don’t come out until dinner,” and continued toward his home office without looking back. Trevor had hesitated, but Dad hadn’t looked or sounded like himself. There wasn’t anyplace he wanted to be, anyway, he’d told himself, and gone upstairs where he threw himself on the bed and discovered he had enough adrenaline still heating up his bloodstream that he wished Aaron Latter was on his feet again and coming at him.

Now Trevor only wanted his father to get the lecture over so he could sneak out and meet Cait. So far, she was the only good thing to come out of moving to this crappy little town. When he was with her, his anger settled. He felt more normal. Horny, but normal. He grinned. Yeah, okay, that was normal.

“You find this funny?” his father asked coldly.

He kept his head down. “I was thinking about something else.”

“I guess the first thing I need to figure out is how to keep your attention, then, isn’t it?”

His first thought was Oh, shit, and his second— Yeah, big scare, what can he do to me anyway?

Dad held out his hand. “Car keys.”

The legs of Trevor’s chair scraped on the floor as he recoiled. “What?”

“You heard me. Your driving privileges are suspended.”

Rage rose in him. Tide coming in. “That car’s a piece of crap, anyway.” He took pleasure in the slight flinch he detected beside his father’s grimly set mouth. Dad had bought the heap of junk before Trevor had even shown up. He’d been proud that he already had a car for his son.

Trevor dug in his jeans pocket, pulled out the keys and tossed them toward his father. He wasn’t real sorry when they landed on Dad’s lasagna.

Without a word, his father picked them up, took the car key off the ring and handed it back to Trevor. “You might want to wash that,” he commented, in the hard voice that didn’t sound like the dad Trevor knew and had thought he loved. Then he calmly wiped his fingers on his napkin and started to eat.

Trevor stared at his meal.

“The cell phone is next,” Dad remarked, as if he was commenting on something that happened at work that morning. “One more call from the school. You understand?”

“I’m not hungry.” Trevor pushed back from the table.

“Understand?”

“Yes! I understand! Are you happy?” He hated the tremor in his voice. The little boy in awe of his daddy. The wriggling, squirming need to piss on the floor because daddy was mad at him.

“Happy?” For a moment their eyes met, the same espresso color. “No, I wouldn’t say that.”

“May I be excused?” Trevor asked with mocking courtesy.

“Certainly,” his father said. “Check the refrigerator in the morning. Since you’ll be home, anyway, I’ll post a list of chores for you to do.”

Trevor didn’t say a word. He left the dining room and went upstairs. He’d already perfected the art of leaving the house via his bedroom window and swinging down from the arbor that covered the back patio. He and Cait were meeting at ten. Fortunately, he could walk anyplace in this nowhere town.

Tonight he’d get in her pants. She was dragging her feet. She hadn’t done it before, she said. She wasn’t sure she was ready. Furious, he turned on his music loud enough to shake the walls.

Well, screw that. Screw her. He was ready. Past ready. Desperate. He needed something, and she was it.

CHAPTER TWO

MOLLY DIDN’T DARE go so far as forbidding Cait to see Trevor. That was about the dumbest thing any parent could do, she had always believed. But oh, how she wanted to.

He did not appear chastened when he reappeared in school the following Monday. The black eye had already faded to mustard and lavender. All it succeeded in doing was making him look tougher. He seemed not to have shaved that morning, as if making a statement with the dark stubble. Molly noticed, as she noticed most things in her school. That was one of the mornings she greeted students arriving from the parking lot. His eyes met hers briefly, and she had to work to keep herself from taking a step back. The disquieting thing, she realized, was that there was no spark of rage. Instead, if she hadn’t imagined it, he’d smirked. As if he knew something she didn’t.

A mother’s panic struck her. Cait. That son of a bitch. If he was planning to get to her through her daughter, she’d… Her stomach clenched. Do what? She couldn’t even prevent whatever it was he had in mind, not without locking Caitlyn in her room for the foreseeable future. Sending her off to boarding school. And that was assuming she wasn’t already too late.

I’ll keep the channels of communication open, she told herself, tamping down the fear. Cait and she had always talked, often and easily. Her daughter’s recent behavior was an anomaly. She’d get over it.

But that same panic had Molly wondering, When?

She had spoken at length to Aaron and his mother—his father was apparently too busy to take time to discuss his son’s behavior with school officials. The mother talked about pressing charges. Aaron’s eyes got shifty and he insisted that was ridiculous, he could take care of himself. Molly pushed; he got shiftier. It would appear Cait was right; something had been going on that he didn’t want his mother or anyone else to know about. He was not the complete innocent he had initially seemed.

“My daughter has mentioned you,” Molly made a point of saying, and Aaron looked alarmed.

“Cait?”

“Yes.” Molly had studied him unblinkingly. “Did you know she and Trevor are friends?”

The mother’s head had been swiveling as she tried to figure out what this digression had to do with anything. Neither Aaron nor Molly enlightened her, but Molly was satisfied she’d made her point.

She still didn’t like Trevor Ward—although I do not hate him—but she’d decided she didn’t like Aaron Latter, either. Practically stalking, huh? Let him try that again.

Over the course of the next few weeks, Trevor managed to avoid getting into a fight. He still walked the halls of West Fork High School looking like an escapee gunfighter from the O.K. Corral, minus the black duster and—so far—the gun. Oh, God, horrendous thought—he wasn’t that angry, was he?

Molly still caught glimpses of her daughter’s shining strawberry-blond head at his side, barely topping his broad shoulder. Caitlin was going to the library to study a lot these days, after school and evenings. Or hanging out with friends, often unnamed.

“Does it matter?” she asked with apparent indignation. “Like there’s anywhere in town to go.”

There was Trevor’s house afternoons when his father was at work. That was one place Molly would hugely prefer Cait not go. Or Terrace Park, the peculiar one-acre piece of old-growth forest somehow saved as a city park. The vast, tall, dark trees offered too many hiding places, especially at night. A teenage girl had been raped in the park only last year.

In her professional role, Molly had no reason to speak to Richard Ward, although she knew several of the teachers had called him. Trevor was not performing to ability in his classes. In other words, he was obliterating his chances of getting into Harvard or Stanford or possibly even the local community college. Coach Bowman had also called Trevor’s father to ask why Trevor was refusing to go out for the basketball team. Coach Loomis had been sulking since school began because Trevor had refused to play football. West Fork had come within one win last year of taking the league championships. This kid who’d led his team to all-state in California could have taken West Fork to the Promised Land. It was killing Chuck Loomis that Trevor had refused. Gene Bowman was refusing to lose hope.

Molly wished him all the luck in the world. She’d love to see Trevor tied up every afternoon in basketball practice. Friday or Saturday nights at games. Whole weekends at tournaments! He could take some of his aggression out on the court in a healthy, culturally approved manner. He could be frequently unavailable to spend time with her daughter. Despite the many pluses, however, she was staying out of the campaign to win Trevor over. She had had to assure Gene several times that her intervention would hurt more than it helped.

One day the first week of October Molly overheard Caitlyn whining on the phone to someone—probably Trevor—that Mom hadn’t let her take driver’s ed this semester, so now she couldn’t get her license until next summer even though she would turn sixteen in April.

To the best of Molly’s recollection, they’d both agreed it didn’t make sense for her to take the class until spring since it would be almost summer before she’d be able to drive, anyway.

Of course there was no mystery about Cait’s new passion for getting her driver’s license. When he couldn’t hitch a ride to school with one of his new friends, Trevor had become a walker. Knowing Richard Ward had taken the kid’s car away from him after the last fight did soften Molly’s feelings toward Ward senior, if only slightly. Smart to hit a teenager the hardest where the privileges he or she took for granted were concerned. For a boy, the car had to be number one.

She would swear she’d never set eyes on Trevor’s father before, but by some evil chance she kept seeing him now.

One Saturday she was pushing her cart filled with groceries out of the store and came nearly face-to-face with both father and son, striding across the parking lot toward her. Trevor looked sulky—gee, nothing new in that. His father looked sexy, in well-worn jeans and a faded T-shirt that clung to a powerful body. Oh, Lord, she thought, reacting to his loose-hipped, purely male walk.... One, she was disturbed to see, that his son shared.

The boy’s stride checked briefly.

“Trevor,” she said pleasantly, nodding. “Mr. Ward.”

“Ms. Callahan.”

Was she imagining the mocking emphasis on the Ms.? Molly’s eyes narrowed. She’d expect it from the son, but not the father. No wonder his kid was such a butt.

The heavily laden cart had taken on a life of its own and she couldn’t have paused even if she’d wanted to. “You need a hand?” said a reluctant voice behind her.

Father. Son hovered by the double doors, confusing them so that they slid open and closed, open and closed.

“Thank you, but no. I generally manage groceries on my own.”

A flash in his so-dark eyes told her he’d heard her antagonism. He nodded and turned away.

“Mr. Ward,” Molly called, ashamed of herself.

He paused and looked back, eyebrows up.

“Thank you. I mean it. It was kind of you to offer.”

She had absolutely no idea what he was thinking. He only bent his head again and joined his son. The two disappeared into the store. Molly realized she hadn’t seen them so much as glance at each other, never mind exchange a word.

She spotted him less than a week later behind the wheel of a moss-green cargo van that said Ward Electrical on the side. Molly had seen the vans before. In fact, hadn’t they done the electrical work on the new elementary school? He must own the company.

She had pulled into a parking spot on the main street of West Fork’s old-fashioned downtown. The Ward Electrical van had had to wait while she maneuvered. She turned her head as the van passed, and their eyes met. Inimical, she thought was the word. High school English teacher though she’d been, she had never until now put that particular word into real-world use. Mr. Ward did not care for her.

What ate at her was the knowledge that she deserved his dislike. He’d been a jerk, but she hadn’t behaved any better. In fact, she’d been a jerk first. She’d had a headache, Trevor had quite honestly scared her and because of Trevor she was losing all closeness with her daughter, her only family. She prided herself on being a professional, but she hadn’t been where either Ward was concerned.

Richard was in the bleachers on the evening in early October when the school held its first open house, mainly geared at freshman parents but open to all. Marta welcomed them, induced a few chuckles then introduced some of the staff, including Molly.

“Our vice principal, Molly Callahan,” she said, “spent her summer ensuring that students were placed in appropriate classes and that when they got there, each and every one would find a chair to sit in and a desk to write on. This busy lady is part of our curriculum committee, deals with behavioral issues, oversees building maintenance and support staff. You are much likelier to meet with Ms. Callahan this year than me, although—” she smiled broadly “—I sincerely hope it isn’t when your child gets in trouble.”

A laugh rippled through the assembled parents, all looking awkward crowded on the bleachers. Probably feeling a hint of déjà vu. Unfortunately, that was the moment when Richard Ward, seated halfway up on the end of the senior class bleacher, caught her eye. He was not laughing.

After the speeches, teachers settled at tables hurriedly placed around the gymnasium and out in the main corridor. Parents circulated to chat with their particular child’s teachers. Molly wandered around, greeting people she knew, pausing to talk longer with a few who had concerns. She kept seeing Richard, who was apparently determined to speak to every single one of Trevor’s teachers. Probably he wanted to put faces with the voices he’d already heard on the phone when they called to discuss his son’s shortcomings. Lucky man.

She slipped into the administrative offices to call Cait, who answered neither the home phone nor her mobile. Wonderful. Molly had a sudden image of all the unsupervised teenagers in town assembling at Terrace Park for some kind of bacchanalian party while their parents were all earnestly engaged in planning their futures. God.

A new headache nudged at her temple. She’d been getting a lot of them lately. Better drunken revelry, she decided, than Trevor and Caitlyn alone. She shook with sudden frustration and anger. What if they were in Cait’s bedroom right now? Listening to the phone ring? Laughing? She could hear Cait, in that new snotty voice, saying, “Ooh, Mommy’s checking up on me.”

Putting on her game face, Molly let herself out of the offices only to see Richard Ward walking toward her.

Voices spilled into the broad corridor from the gymnasium and open area outside it. In the other direction, headlights were coming on in the dark parking lot outside. But momentarily, the two of them were alone and she felt the oddest pang of…fear?

Surely not.

Molly stiffened. “Thank you for coming tonight, Mr. Ward. I hope you were able to meet with everyone you wanted to.”

“Yes, thank you.” He looked gorgeous in a charcoal suit, white shirt and even a tie rather than his green work uniform.

She hated the knowledge that she could totally understand how Caitlyn had fallen so hard for this man’s son. With hair long enough to be slightly unruly, mocking dark eyes and that lazy, long-legged stride, he was the sexiest man she’d ever seen.

He’s a parent, she told herself. An electrician, for Pete’s sake. A regular, garden-variety man. Maybe even married.

She didn’t remember noticing the name of a stepmother in Trevor’s records, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one.

That splashed cold water on her involuntary leap of attraction. It hadn’t occurred to her, for some reason, but of course he was. How many men his age who looked like that and made a good living hadn’t been snatched up long ago? None. Molly made a mental note to check Trevor’s records again. Only to satisfy her curiosity, of course. Yes, he’d come to school conferences alone, but his current wife wasn’t Trevor’s mother, obviously. A defiant seventeen-year-old son would be his responsibility, not hers.

“Good night, then.” She offered him another vague, pleasant smile and passed by him close enough to touch as she returned to the gym and he continued to the outer doors and parking lot. If he wished her a good-night, she didn’t hear it.

She had another hour to get through before she could go home and find out whether her daughter was Jekyll or Hyde tonight. With an odd ramble into frivolity, she thought, Maybe I should I make it Jacqueline or…hmm, Heidi?

* * *

“DAMN IT, ALEXA, ANSWER,” Richard growled, listening to the phone ring. He’d left half a dozen messages. He’d have flown to California to confront her if he’d been positive where she and Brianna were living. The house had belonged to Alexa’s husband, Davis, so of course she’d been the one to have to move out along with her children. A month ago, the two had been staying with friends. Brianna had texted that she and Mom had an apartment now, but Richard had yet to get an address.

“Richard.”

She’d picked up. About goddamn time.

“You’ve been dodging me,” he said.

“You know my life is a mess.” She had an irritatingly little girl voice that always caught him by surprise. Hard to imagine why he’d thought it was cute when they were in high school together. Now it only grated. “I don’t need more to deal with. Trev flipped out. It was too much for me. The two of you have always been tight. I thought he’d be happy to be living with you.”

“He’s damn near flunking out of school, he’s been in two ugly fights and is a hair away from getting expelled, and every word he deigns to speak to me drips with sarcasm and hostility. I can safely say that he isn’t happy.”

“Oh, no,” she whispered.

“Lexa, what happened? This had to be almost an overnight thing. He’s not talking. You need to tell me.”

“I don’t know!” she cried. “Okay? Davis and I were having problems, and maybe I just didn’t notice something. All I know is that he suddenly hated me, Davis and everyone else.”

“Brianna?”

She let out a breath that might have been a sob. “Maybe not her. I don’t know. I think he calls her sometimes.”

“She told me he does.”

“Did you ask her?”

“Not yet.” It seemed underhanded, using one kid to get a handle on the other. And he’d always found it harder to talk to Brianna.

“Well, try,” his ex snapped. “Trevor sure doesn’t talk to me. He doesn’t answer when I call and hasn’t called me once. He’s all yours, Richard. Isn’t that what you always wanted?”

It was all he could do not to say, Yeah, but I’d have liked to get him before you screwed with his head.

That wasn’t fair, anyway. As little as he liked Alexa, she’d done fine with the kids. Brianna seemed like a normal teenage girl—i.e., incomprehensible to him—but what was new about that? Trevor had thrived until whatever happened happened.

They talked for a couple more minutes. Alexa got sulkier and sulkier. He found himself responding in monosyllables. He finally asked if Brianna was there and his daughter came on.

“Hi, Daddy.”

Daddy. Call him a sucker, but that warmed him. Not so much when she was trying to persuade him to buy something for her, but when it popped out for no reason, yeah.

“Hey, honey. How are you? You settled into school?”

She’d had to change schools, too, which wasn’t fair, but her mother couldn’t afford an apartment in Beverly Hills where Davis lived. The guy was rich enough to have made it possible if he’d wanted, but why would he? The kids weren’t his. At least the break hadn’t happened mid-school year.

Brianna was fourteen, and a freshman in high school now. Only a year behind Trevor’s apparent girlfriend, Caitlyn Callahan. Had that occurred to Trev?

“It’s okay,” Bree said, tone telling him it really wasn’t. “At least I still talk to Lark.”

His daughter might be a near stranger to him, but Richard did know that Lark was her most recent BFF. Lark’s daddy was with one of the big Hollywood talent agencies. Brianna had been moving in slightly scary circles. He’d wondered without ever asking her if she told anyone that her father was an electrician.

“That’s good,” he said cautiously. “Gotten to know some new kids?”

“Oh, kinda. The classes are way behind the ones I was in last year.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He felt helpless, as he often did when talking to her. He couldn’t have offered her what Davis Noonan had. He’d had painfully mixed feelings about the advantages this man he’d never even met had given his children. His feelings about them losing those advantages were even murkier. “I’m betting you’ll rise to the top wherever you are,” he said in the hearty tone any self-respecting kid would see through.

“Oh, Dad.” Rolled eyes. He knew it. He’d been demoted to “Dad,” too.

“Trev is having a tough time,” he said abruptly.

“Yeah, he doesn’t say much.”

Unhelpful. “I was hoping he did to you.”

“Nuh-uh. I think he’s mad at Mom and you, too, but I don’t know why.” She paused. “Is that why you wanted to talk to me?”

“Partly,” he admitted, shamed. He tugged at his hair hard enough to hurt. “I always want to talk to you. You know that.”

“I kind of wish I’d come for the summer.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I wish you had, too, honey. I miss you. It’s been too long.”

Bree hadn’t spent this past summer with Richard, either. She’d seemed reluctant with her brother not coming, and Richard hadn’t pushed it. He was sorry now.

“Maybe I can come for Christmas,” she added. “Except then Mom would be alone, so maybe not. Plus I wouldn’t know anyone there.”

“You know me and your brother.”

She made a noncommittal noise. He tried to coax some more information from her about new friends, teachers, anything, but got nuggets like “not really” and “they’re fine.” Finally he gave up and they signed off.

In frustration he thought, This is as good as it’s going to get. I’ll watch her graduate from high school and probably college, help pay for a wedding, walk her down the aisle if stepfather number four or five doesn’t get the nod, and I’ll never really know her. My own daughter.

He’d actually had doubts about whether she really was, although he rarely let them surface. He hadn’t guessed when Bree was born that Alexa was sleeping around, but later… He’d wondered, that’s all. Unlike Trevor, she had her mother’s coloring and enough of her mother’s looks there was no being sure. It didn’t make any difference, though. He’d loved his little girl from the first time he held her, and never stopped. It didn’t really matter if biologically she was his or not. It was only that she was more like her mother. Girlie.

He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. Brooding was getting him nowhere.

What he had to ask himself was whether Alexa had lied to him just now. He had a hard time imagining that she really had no idea what had turned their all-star son into a wannabe juvenile delinquent.

And—hell—what about Brianna? Was she lying, too? Was there something none of them wanted him to know? He grunted with near humor. If I were trying to keep a secret, would I confide it to my powder keg of a son? My mall-mad daughter?

No, for God’s sake, that was idiocy. Sooner or later, Trevor would blow up and all would be revealed. Had to happen.

Whether Richard could fix what was wrong, though, that was another story.

Sitting there alone in the quiet house, he admitted to himself that he could use help. None of his friends who were married had teenagers, though; they hadn’t started families as young as he had. Counseling would be useless without Trevor’s cooperation. And Richard would be damned if he’d ask for help from Molly Callahan, who cared so much she had only suspended Trev instead of expelling him. Big of her.

As much as he disliked her, Richard wished he could keep himself from noticing her luscious body, glorious hair and exquisite skin. Or the fact that she didn’t wear a wedding ring.

That didn’t mean she wasn’t married, he reminded himself, and then thought, Poor schmuck. She probably gave him that chilly, commanding stare over the dinner table until he ate every last bite of his broccoli.

Richard shook his head hard. Quit thinking about her. Get your head where it needs to be: on your own kid.

Yeah, that might be more productive—if he had the slightest idea what Trev’s problem was.

* * *

TREVOR DIDN’T GET WHAT was going on with Cait. She was shy when he saw her at school the day after they got it on the first time. He almost kind of liked that. He liked knowing he was the only guy she’d ever had. She’d been major tight, and he’d gotten a real charge out of breaking in. Hah! Like he’d fiddled and fiddled with the dial on a safe, and there’d been that magic moment when the numbers tumbled into place and the lock clicked open. Man, it felt good. But he knew it hurt her. So he’d resolved the next time to make up for it.

But her shyness hung on. And even though he’d screwed her, like, five or six more times since then, he could tell she wasn’t enjoying it. She lay there under him stiff, and seemed relieved when it was over. She didn’t talk to him the same way anymore, either. He thought she was avoiding him.

It was almost mid-October now. Determined to make her tell him what was wrong, he lay in wait outside school at the end of the day. She came out the usual door with a cluster of her friends. Something happened on her face the minute she spotted him. She said something to the other girls, who all turned and looked at him, then Cait separated herself from them and came over to him.

“Were you waiting for me?”

“Yeah, I want to talk to you.”

“I have dance.”

“I know you do.” It had kind of pissed him off that she would never ditch one of her dance lessons for him. She had lessons three days a week, and often went to the studio in the evening or even on the weekends for more informal sessions. She’d told him that, if she was going to stay limber and be really good, she had to work out and dance every single day. He’d gone to watch a couple of times, and she was good, he had to admit. She looked amazing in her leotard, too. And there was the way she moved. It was so different from how other girls moved. Even the other girls at the dance school. Cait looked like the real thing. Maybe she was, or would be. He knew she’d been in the Pacific Northwest Ballet Nutcracker for a couple of years when she was younger.

“Can I walk you over there?” he asked.

“Um.” She shrugged. “Sure.” They crossed the parking lot and reached the sidewalk. She sneaked a look at him. “What do you want to talk about?”

“You’re being weird lately. Like you don’t like me anymore.”

She kept her head down and her mass of hair hid her face. “It’s not you.”

“Then what is it?”

“Me,” she said softly. “It’s me, okay?” Her voice rose there at the end.

He caught her arm and turned her to face him. Her eyes were darker than usual, almost purple like storm clouds could be. She was so beautiful, he wanted to kiss her, but when he started to bend toward her she took a step back.

“I need time. I’m a little freaked, okay?”

Shock slammed him, like a fist in his gut. “Freaked about what? Me?”

“I’ve never had a boyfriend before.”

He waited, but she’d clammed up.

“And now you don’t want one?”

She squeezed her eyes shut for a minute. Her hands gripped the cloth handle of her dance bag so tightly her knuckles shone white. “I do, but…”

“You don’t.”

“I do! I just wish…”

He knew what she wished, and it made him mad. “That we could hold hands? Maybe kiss each other but keep our tongues in our mouths? And our clothes on?”

“Maybe.” She swallowed, and now her eyes held appeal. “Sometimes.”

Angry and hurt and he didn’t know what else, Trevor backed up yet another step. “I thought you were grown-up. My mistake to hook up with a little girl.”

Her chin came up. “I’m not a little girl.”

“You know what?” he said. “Let’s forget about all of this, okay? There are plenty of girls who want me. Ones who are ready for something real, not make-believe like playing with Barbie dolls or having a tea party for your stuffed animals.” The cruelty came easily. Slice and dice. He told himself he didn’t care about the way her eyes dilated or she panted with shock. “Run along to your dance lesson, little girl.” He was walking backward now, opening distance between them. “See you around,” he told her with deliberate carelessness.

She gasped, whirled and ran, leaving him feeling bloody even if he was the one doing the slicing. Bitch, he thought. She played me. I hope she’s crying. She deserves to get hers.

He wanted to go smash windows. Faces. Something. No more Cait to make him feel normal. Warm.

Who cares? he told himself. Who needs her?

CHAPTER THREE

MOLLY PAUSED IN THE HALL outside her daughter’s bedroom door, cocking her head to hear music or a voice. Nothing. Probably Cait was listening to her iPod while she worked on a school assignment or talked with friends online or texted. After a moment she knocked. “Cait?”

The “Yeah?” didn’t sound very encouraging, but Molly opened the door, anyway. How things change. Six weeks ago she’d have been welcome anytime in Caitlyn’s bedroom. Now she had no idea what was happening in Cait’s life. Maybe today Molly could get her to open up.

Sure enough, Cait sat cross-legged on her bed, an earbud in and her smartphone in her hands. She looked up with an expression that said, Why are you bothering me?

Molly sat at the foot of the bed, anyway. “Is something going on with you and Trevor?” she asked bluntly. “I haven’t seen you with him lately.”

“Bet you’re really sorry, aren’t you?” Resentment gave a razor edge to every word.

“I’m sorry for anything that hurts you. Please believe that, if nothing else.”

Dark smudges surrounded Cait’s eyes. Heavier than usual makeup, or had she rubbed her eyes, forgetting that she wore mascara? Wanting to reach out to her, Molly restrained herself.

Cait shrugged. “We broke up, so I guess you can go out and celebrate.”

“Honey…”

“I don’t want to talk about it, okay?” Cait stared wildly at her. “Especially not with you.”

Molly flinched at the sheer venom and knew her daughter saw it. She wanted to say something parentlike, wise, understanding, but her mind was a giant blank. After a moment, she nodded, stood up and left the room without saying another word. She heard the sob behind her as she closed the door, but she didn’t stop, felt no temptation to go back.

She went to her own room and sat in the easy chair where she often read. It had to be ten minutes before she was calm enough to feel rational. Mostly rational. Right at this moment, she couldn’t figure out how parents went on after scenes like this and looked at their children with love. She couldn’t even figure out why this particular scene had hurt so much. All she knew was that it had.

On instinct she changed to running clothes, including the iron maiden bra she had to wear when active. She’d use the middle school track. She was less likely to be recognized there than at the high school. She ought to be putting on dinner, but if Cait got hungry tonight she could feed herself. Molly didn’t even knock on her daughter’s door on the way out to tell her where she was going.

She found the track deserted and, after stretching, began to run. Slowly at first, then pushing herself harder and harder. She was on the third mile before she recognized the stew of emotions inside her as a sense of betrayal. The person she loved the most had turned on her, and all the child psychology she could summon, all the reason, didn’t seem to help.

She doesn’t really hate me, no matter how it sounded. How it looked. I know better. I know if I’m patient, when she’s eighteen or twenty she’ll return to me, my loving daughter. I know that. I do.

Hormones. Pulling away. Cait’s behavior was typical. Probably more typical than the way she’d breezed through the usually difficult middle school years.

I’m an adult. I’m the parent.

Yes, she was. But did that excuse Cait?

She was running all out now. Too fast, her lungs heaving. The slap of her feet on the track was all she heard.

I love her.

I don’t deserve this.

Finally she had to make herself slow, then walk. Her eyes stung from sweat and her thigh muscles felt like jelly.

The childish hurt had faded, replaced by a crushing sense of failure. What was she doing in a profession for which she was obviously so ill qualified? She cringed at the superiority she’d felt as she counseled parents from her own lofty height as the mother of the perfect child. To think she’d dared when she knew so little about being a parent or even a teenager. She certainly hadn’t been a usual one herself. She had never been able to rebel.

Who was I to talk? she marveled. And then, No wonder Richard Ward looked at me like that.

She felt stiff and slow and older than her thirty-five years when she got back in her car and started for home.

* * *

CUTE LITTLE CAITLYN Callahan seemed to be a thing of the past. So far as Richard could tell, there wasn’t another girlfriend, per se, although there were certainly girls. Trevor was coming home smelling of cigarettes first, then booze and finally pot. They had one ugly confrontation after another. Richard wondered if there were still military-style boarding schools.

It was nearly the end of October, which meant midsemester grades would be coming out. Richard warned Trev that if he was failing, he’d lose his cell phone.

He had always believed you taught your kids your values, then trusted them. When treated with respect, people were more likely to push themselves to meet expectations, he’d been sure. Worked for employees, should work for kids, right?

The day he searched his son’s bedroom was a low. The very necessity made him admit that Trevor was in real trouble. That, as a parent, he was in real trouble.

He worked quickly, efficiently, trying not to let himself think too much about the way he was violating Trev’s privacy. Drawers first—underwear and socks, shirts, jeans. Nothing untoward. Closet—mostly unused sports equipment and shoes in a jumble on the carpeted floor, a few jackets carelessly hung, unpacked boxes on the shelf. Richard lifted those down, one by one, but found them still taped shut and identified in bold black marker—Trev’s Summer Clothes. Trev’s Ski Parka, Quilted Pants Etc. Trev’s Books. And so on. He put them all back where they’d been. Moved on to the desk.

There he found precious few signs that school assignments were being completed, but a few returned quizzes and tests that gave him hope. Apparently Trevor had been advanced enough in school that the routine work was a gimme for him. Maybe enough to save him with passing grades?

It was a sad day when that was all he could hope for.

Actually, that wasn’t the only positive. He also failed to find any drugs. So the pot he’d smelled probably hadn’t been Trevor’s. He didn’t find any cigarettes, either. Or even matches or lighter. Maybe Trev hadn’t gotten as stupid as he’d feared.

He did find a couple of magazines featuring naked women in lewd poses, but those weren’t any surprise. What teenage boy didn’t have some under his mattress?

Once he was sure Trevor’s room looked the same as when he’d entered it, Richard went downstairs to his home office and refuge. He sat behind his desk to brood. His mouth curved wryly as he remembered those long-ago days when he, too, was a teenager and unable to think about much besides girls and sex. His curiosity had raged from the time he was maybe eleven or twelve. Mom wouldn’t have touched the topic with a ten-foot pole, but Dad had sat him down for a few awkward conversations that were less than informative. Mostly he’d tried to drive home a singular point—be very careful not to get a girl pregnant. Richard grunted. Dad must have felt as much of a failure when Lexa turned up pregnant and Richard had to give up college to marry her as he did now, unable to understand or reach his own kid.

His smile died as he wondered whether Trevor was actually sleeping with those ever-present girls. Another thing Richard hadn’t found, come to think of it, was condoms. Huh. How would Trevor react if his father presented him with the gift of a box of them? Or would that seem too much like a green light to go crazy sexually, so long as he wore the condoms?

Another question to which he had no answer. He could imagine Trevor’s reaction if his father tried to sit him down for a conversation about safe sex.

Did Molly Callahan know her daughter was no longer seeing Trev? If so, she no doubt felt profound relief. Or had she ever known Caitlyn was seeing Trev? It wasn’t as if kids dated the way they once had.

He grunted again. Yeah, of course she’d known. Maybe she wasn’t a cast-iron bitch; maybe she’d seen his son as a threat to her daughter. Richard knew how he’d feel if Bree were seeing a guy with Trevor’s behavioral issues. Maybe Ms. Callahan had some excuse for her hostility.

A part of him wished he knew for sure. He was uncomfortable to realize she’d surfaced in his thoughts not because she was Caitlyn’s mother, but because he had been thinking about sex. Something he hadn’t had in way too long. Hadn’t even especially wanted, except in an easy-to-dismiss way when a woman momentarily caught his eye. Casual sex had gotten to be less satisfying at his age, and after the disaster that was his marriage he’d never been sure he was willing to go that route again. Trust once decimated was difficult to resurrect. Most women would want to start a family, too. Been there, done that, and less than satisfactorily. He couldn’t see himself starting all over. So he’d found himself dating less and less often, with the result that opportunities to take a woman to bed came rarely.

I’m thirty-seven years old, and I’ve consigned myself to middle age. I didn’t even notice it happening.

Being a full-time father to Trevor seemed to be hastening the process.

But a picture rose in Richard’s mind’s eye again of Molly Callahan, pushing that cart out of the grocery store. She’d looked ten years younger in jeans and a snug sweater, hair in a ponytail. He could close his eyes and see her. The way the jeans had fit over her long legs and firm, full ass, the sweater over breasts that would be more than handfuls even for a man with big hands. The pink painted on her cheeks by chagrin, the shame and vulnerability in her eyes when she’d called after him to apologize, if obliquely, for her rudeness.

Of course, he’d been so miffed at her instant rejection, he’d then been rude. He could imagine what she’d think and say if he called and asked her out to dinner.

Since that was a clear impossibility, it might be best if he kept assuming she really was a bitch, instead of suspecting she might have some excuses for coming across that way.

* * *

THE HIGH SCHOOL HELD an annual harvest dance, Halloween with its pagan connotations being verboten. It was the first dance of the year, which meant freshman girls in particular giggled and talked about little else when clustered at lockers. This year’s was to be held on Friday night, two days before Halloween.

Molly dreaded dances. Even when they’d had an open, loving relationship, Cait had hated knowing her mother was there, however much Molly swore, cross my heart and hope to die, that she didn’t look for her daughter, tried not to see her even when she did, did not memorize what boys she danced with. Of course, Molly perjured herself when she swore, because she couldn’t help keeping a watchful eye out for her own kid. It was behavior out of her conscious control. Someday, when Cait had children of her own, she’d understand, Molly told herself.

Caitlyn announced at the last minute that she wasn’t going to this dance.

“You can dance with your friends,” Molly suggested helplessly.

Expression mutinous, Cait shrugged. “I don’t feel like going.”

“Trevor probably won’t be there. Seniors usually don’t bother.”

“I don’t want to. That’s all.” She gave a nasty smile. “You have fun, Mom.”

As usual, Molly planted herself out in front of the gymnasium as reassurance to parents and warning to kids. Most of the students arrived in clusters, many from the parking lot. Others, especially the freshmen and sophomores, were dropped off by parents. Molly paid no particular attention to a black pickup pulling to the curb until Trevor leaped out. He hurried away, undoubtedly anxious to disassociate himself from his dad.

Molly made a point of smiling at him. “Trevor. Glad you came.”

Instead of staring his usual challenge, his gaze touched hers with alarm and skipped away. He ducked his head and hurried past her into the gym.

Hmm, she wondered. What was that about?

She glanced back to see that the pickup was still there. In fact, Richard Ward had gotten out and was walking toward her. The night was cold and he wore jeans, work boots, a flannel shirt and down vest. His eyes were shadowed by the artificial outdoor lighting, but she thought they were wary.

“Ms. Callahan.”

“Mr. Ward.” She turned her head to smile at some students. “Sarah, Danielle, Micayla. Have fun.”

“Chilly night to have to stand out here,” Richard remarked.

“Yes, it is.” She’d pulled out her wool peacoat for the first time and had the collar turned up over a scarf wrapped around her neck. She even wore gloves. She could see her breath. His, too, come to think of it.

He remained silent as she spoke to more kids and waved greetings at a couple of parents. She saw out of the corner of her eyes that he’d shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. When there was a momentary lull, he spoke. “I keep expecting to hear from you.”

She faced him. “Trevor hasn’t been in any more fights, thank goodness. We had some vandalism, but as far as I can tell he wasn’t tied to it. Which is not to say he doesn’t still worry me.”

“Me, too.”

Well, that was honest. It didn’t so much surprise her as make her aware anew of how badly she’d misjudged him. After seeing him earnestly making the rounds talking to Trevor’s teachers, she’d been forced to realize that he did care about his son and was, in fact, taking full parental responsibility. He still made her uncomfortable, but that wasn’t his fault. Seeing him only reminded her of how poorly she’d handled that meeting—and probably the phone call preceding it.

Okay, and then there was the fact that he reminded her for the first time in a long while that she was a woman, with a woman’s needs. Right now, for example, she was painfully aware of his size, broad shoulders, dark, tousled hair and the angles and planes of his face that made it look…austere. Although that might not be the bone structure. Molly had a feeling this man was suppressing a whole lot.

“I gather he and your daughter aren’t an item anymore,” he said after a minute.

“Yes, so she tells me.”

“Did she say why?”

“No.” Molly frowned and really looked at him. “They’re young. Pairings don’t usually last long.”

“Maybe not.” He rocked back on his heels. “I met Trevor’s mother in high school. Dated her the last two years, and married her.”

She opened her mouth and then closed it. She didn’t know why she was shocked that he’d told her so much. It hadn’t been a throwaway, making conversation kind of comment. Had he really gotten married at eighteen? She was horrified whenever she heard about students graduating and getting married right away.

Not that she could say much, married at twenty and a mother at twenty-one. Yes, but see how that had turned out. Maybe it’s why she was horrified by the idea of it happening to anyone else.

“But you’re divorced,” she heard herself say, and winced.

“I didn’t say it was a good idea. Only that some high school romances get serious.”

She nodded.

“I have the impression Caitlyn hurt him.”

Oh, so that was why he was loitering at her side? Wanting to blame her daughter? Molly’s anger fired right up. Maybe her first impression was right after all; maybe he was the kind of parent who always wanted to blame someone else.

“Funny,” she said sharply. “I have the impression he hurt Cait. She didn’t even come tonight.”

“Really.” He continued to stand there, rocking subtly on the balls of his feet, watching her. Cars pulling up to the curb were having to maneuver to get around his pickup.

She greeted more people. There he stood. Exasperation and something that felt a little bit like panic finally made her turn back to him.

“Mr. Ward, I’m afraid I need to be available to other parents. And I’ll have to go inside soon. If you’ll excuse me…?”

She would have said his face was expressionless, but now it became really expressionless.

“Of course,” he said. “Sorry. I wanted… It doesn’t matter. Poor timing. Hope the evening goes smoothly.” He nodded and walked away, climbing a moment later into his pickup and accelerating away from the curb without once looking back at her.

I wanted… What?

An ache in her chest told her she should have guessed he needed to talk to her about something specific. Of course he hadn’t hung around only to make disjointed, meaningless conversation. Probably he had hoped to discuss Trevor. What else could it be?

Why in heck hadn’t she asked him, as she would have any other parent, whether he needed to talk? Suggested they arrange an appointment instead of icily dismissing him?

Oh, but she knew why. He intimidated her. He made her feel things she didn’t know how to handle. She could talk alone with the father of any other student in this school district without once thinking of him as a man. But with Trevor Ward’s father… She couldn’t forget he was a man. Attractive, enigmatic and probably unavailable, assuming she could even imagine herself wanting him to be available, which she didn’t.

Ugh. She didn’t lie even to herself very well.

* * *

WAY TO STRIKE OUT, Richard congratulated himself. But, God, had he behaved like an idiot, or what? Standing there shuffling his feet, sneaking peeks at the object of his adoration—who was trying to do her job and had absolutely no time to chat with him, never mind flirt.

It appeared he’d lost any touch he’d ever had. Richard couldn’t believe he’d done that. He hadn’t intended to. He had never consciously decided, When I see her again, I’ll ask her out. No, when he saw her out front of the gym greeting arrivals, impulse had overcome him and next thing he knew he’d been standing beside her trying to think of something to say.

So, of course, his conversational foray had been to accuse her kid of breaking his kid’s heart. He flinched at the memory. Really slick.

He’d been surprised Trevor wanted to go to the dance at all, far less was willing to accept a ride from him. Not that he’d done so gracefully; when Richard offered, Trev had given a typically sullen, one-shouldered shrug that said, louder than words, whatever. One of his favorite words in the English language. So favored, he’d learned to convey it wordlessly. Still, he had accepted. Of course, he hadn’t talked during the short drive, but he had actually muttered a “thanks” before he jumped out. A word Richard would have sworn Trevor had deleted from his vocabulary.

Home again, Richard found the house felt empty and too quiet, a ridiculous thing to think when he’d lived here alone since his divorce but for the kids’ visits and his own two, year-long tours in Iraq. Then, living in barracks with other National Guardsmen, he’d have given anything to be home in his quiet, empty house. He had nothing to complain about.

He turned on the TV but found nothing interested him and turned it off. He’d never been one for noise for its own sake. The sound of canned voices did not make him feel any less lonely.

Richard set down the remote and looked around his living room. Funny that he hadn’t realized he was lonely. The kids were on his mind a lot, sure, but that wasn’t the same thing. By logical extension, he thought, I could call Bree, but reminded himself it was Friday evening and she was sure to be out. Hell, Lexa probably would be, too. He’d be stunned if she didn’t already have another guy on her string. Maybe two or three. He knew from pictures of her with the kids that she’d stayed beautiful. Maybe Davis hadn’t been paying enough attention to her. Could be he’d gotten too wrapped up in work. Alexa needed to have a man completely besotted with her or she’d look for another one who would be. Eventually Richard had come to feel sorry for her, so insufficient unto herself. She had to see a dazzling reflection of herself in someone’s eyes to feel as if she was worth anything.

Took him long enough to figure that out. But then, good God, he’d been only months older than Trev was now when he made his seventeen-year-old girlfriend pregnant. Mind-boggling thought.

Grimacing, he reached to turn on his computer. At least if he worked, he could accomplish something concrete. Bree’s dad might be an electrician, but he was a pretty damn well-to-do one. He planned to have his bid for the electrical work on a small strip mall in Monday morning. No time like the present to finish it up.

* * *

IT WASN’T FULL DARK WHEN the doorbell rang Sunday night, but Molly knew who she’d find on her doorstep. The little ghosts and robots and princesses came out early.

She usually enjoyed Halloween and had been determined to try to enjoy this one, too. West Fork was the kind of town where it was still safe for children to knock on doors begging for candy. Too bad Cait had already ruined Molly’s favorite part of the holiday—carving the jack-o’-lanterns. They’d done it together since Cait was big enough to draw a face on the pumpkins with her marker and help spoon out seeds and slime. This year, when Molly announced that she’d bought two pumpkins, Cait had said flatly, “Wow.”

“You don’t have dance tonight. I thought this would be a good evening to carve them.”

Her daughter only shrugged. “I don’t feel like it.”

Without another word, Molly had marched downstairs, spread newspaper on the table to contain the mess and done it herself. She didn’t have a grain of Cait’s artistic ability, though, so hers were simple—triangular eyes, noses, wide mouths with missing teeth. But, by God, they had jack-o’-lanterns, one on the porch steps and the other on the railing.

Not half an hour ago, she’d lit candles inside them. Wrapped candy was heaped in a huge ceramic bowl on a side table by the front door, ready to hand out. She’d gotten dinner on the table early—although not as early as she’d planned—so they’d be ready. Cait had even come down when she called.

She then sat pretending to eat, head bent so her hair shielded her face, responding in monosyllables if at all to Molly’s one-sided chatter. The few glimpses Molly had gotten of Cait’s face had scared her. She’d been starkly pale and utterly withdrawn. Something was wrong. Even more wrong.

In irritation, Molly thought, Sure, there is. Something earth-shattering like Trevor acquiring a new girlfriend. She was getting exasperated enough at Cait’s histrionics to keep her from panicking. The sound of the doorbell was a relief.

She opened the door to a cry of “Trick or treat!” and found two small faces grinning up at her. The little girl wore a remarkably clever horse costume—she was a palomino with a shining golden mane and tail—while the boy was a pirate.

“Happy Halloween,” she told them, dropping candy into their proffered orange buckets and waving at the dad who hovered on the front walk. Another group was already turning up toward her porch.

She hadn’t quite finished dinner, but that was okay. Maybe Cait would condescend to take a turn. At least that didn’t involve interaction with her mother, the enemy. And she hadn’t said anything about going out.

To Molly’s surprise she appeared from the kitchen and grinned at the latest group. “Wow, you’re so cute. And you’re scary!” she said, handing out the candy. She mimicked fear at a Frankenstein. Giggling, the two carefully climbed down the porch steps to rejoin a shadowy adult figure—Mom this time?

Studying Cait carefully, Molly thought there was still something odd going on. Did she seem…frenetic?

Wow, I’m getting paranoid.

“You should have seen the horse,” Molly said, closing the door and smiling at her daughter. “The costume was pretty amazing. Almost better than yours.”

Cait rolled her eyes. “Which you designed and sewed by the sweat of your brow. And yeah, I remember you had bandages on every finger by the time you were done creating the tail. How could I forget? You’ve only bragged about my purple horse costume nine million times.”

“I hadn’t even thought of it in years,” Molly said, as evenly as she could manage. “I apologize for mentioning it. Will you get the next trick-or-treaters?”

Cait yanked open the closet and grabbed a parka. “I have to go somewhere.”

Molly had started toward the kitchen, but now she turned back. “Have to?” When there was no answer, she asked, “Where and with whom?”

“‘With whom.’ God, Mom.”

She crossed her arms. “You didn’t mention a party.”

“I’m not going to a party, okay?” Cait exclaimed with that new ugliness. “It’s like six o’clock. It’s not even dark! What’s your problem?”

“I asked where you’re going. Is that so unreasonable?”

“Yes! You don’t trust me at all.” She flung open the door, startling a solitary Mutant Ninja Turtle who had been reaching for the doorbell. He scuttled back a few steps.

“Trick or treat?” he whispered.

“Here!” Cait grabbed a whole handful of candy bars and dumped them in his bag so hard it rattled. “I’m going,” she told her mother, and took off down the steps, yelling over her shoulder, “Deal with it.” The parent waiting on the sidewalk took a step onto the grass to let her tear by. The flashlight the woman held wobbled.

“Thank you,” the little one mumbled, and Molly pulled herself together enough to say, “Happy Halloween.”

Then she shut the door, all her pleasure in the evening gone. Boy, did Cait have a real talent for puncturing every happy moment these days, as if she sensed and resented her mother’s mood. Depressed? Has a headache? Good enough, I’ll give her a break. Cheerful, optimistic? Hell, no. I’ll flatten her.

She’s being a teenager, that’s all. You’re taking it ridiculously hard, Molly told herself. Cait had spoiled her up until now, that’s all. Good heavens, she wasn’t using drugs—at least that Molly could tell—she hadn’t reeled home drunk yet, she wasn’t being dropped off at all hours by boys who screeched up to the curb outside the house. Also, as far as Molly knew, Cait was even keeping her grades up. So she’d become snotty, sulky, secretive and all too frequently angry. Not that unusual.

Deal with it, Molly thought with near humor.

The doorbell rang again, and she found a smile for the next round of children.

By eight-thirty, she was tempted to blow out the candles and turn off the porch light. Any trick-or-treaters now would be teenagers, and she didn’t feel all that obligated to offer them candy. On the other hand—her gaze strayed to the bowl—she was bound to be tempted by the leftovers, and she struggled with her weight enough without ripping open Butterfinger or Snickers bars uncontrollably only because they were there.

She cleared the table in the long lull and began loading the dishwasher. Most of their dinner had to be scraped in the garbage. Molly had scraped quite a lot of food in the garbage lately. Cait seemed to enjoy throwing her scenes at mealtimes. Hey, Molly thought, maybe she should weigh herself. Could there be a silver lining to all this? It had seemed as if the waistband of her navy blue skirt was rather loose this morning.

Unlike her heels, which she still wore in her hurry to get dinner on the table. On the thought, she kicked them off. One flew halfway across the kitchen, the other only a few feet. She wiggled her toes, decided she’d ditch the panty hose as soon as she’d finished cleaning up the kitchen and reached for a dirty pan.

The doorbell rang. She jumped, remembered why it was ringing and turned, stepping automatically around the open dishwasher door. At which point, she planted a foot on the pump lying on its side and stumbled back into the kitchen trash container, which she’d pulled out from the cupboard to make cleanup easier. Even as she swore, it toppled over, spewing the uneaten food, crumpled wrappings, cans that should have gone in recycling, and…what was that?

She stared, disbelieving, at a little white stick with a bright blue dot at one end. Buried at the bottom of the garbage amidst carrot peels.

Suddenly frantic, she crouched and dumped out the rest on the kitchen floor. The doorbell rang again, more insistent. She ignored it, scrabbling through the trash. A brown paper bag held something, half-squashed. With shaking hands, she pulled it out. A home pregnancy test kit. Open. A second stick slid out and plopped onto a glob of leftover casserole. Molly turned it over and saw that it, too, had a blue dot. It only took her a minute to find the instructions. If no color appears, you are not pregnant, she was informed. If color appears, you are. Simple.

Dizzy, she dropped to her knees. All she could think was, My fifteen-year-old daughter is pregnant. Oh, dear God.

CHAPTER FOUR

MOLLY KNEW THAT she would never, so long as she lived, forget the expression on Caitlyn’s face when she finally arrived home at nine-thirty, dashed straight to her bedroom and found her mother sitting in her chair, the two sticks from the pregnancy test kit lying on the desktop in front of her. Her gaze flew to her mother, then the damning evidence and back to Molly.

“You searched the garbage?” she whispered.

“I knocked it over by accident.” Molly had become very nearly numb by now. “You should have disposed of them in the can.”

“I was going to, but there wasn’t anything in it. I thought you’d notice…” Cait swallowed. She still stood a foot or two inside the room, frozen in place.

“You didn’t think I’d notice your belly swelling?” How polite I sound.

“I…I…” Tears spurted and Cait’s face contorted. With a sob she threw herself across the room and facedown onto her bed. Her whole body shook with the force of her tears.

Molly’s eyes stung. On a rush of pity, she moved to sit on the bed and gently rub her daughter’s back. “Oh, sweetie. I know you were scared. I do know.”

She kept murmuring; Cait kept crying. It was a storm of misery and grief and fear. Molly would have given a lot to have joined her. But maybe strangely, she felt steadier now than she had at any time in the past six weeks.

“I love you,” she said, bending down to kiss Cait’s head. “I love you so much. We’ll figure out what we have to do. We will.”

“How can you love me?” her child wailed.

Through her own tears, Molly laughed. “I will always love you. Haven’t I told you that a million times? That no matter what happens, no matter what you do, I will love you because I’m your mother?”

Cait managed to roll over and look up through swollen eyes. Her skin was blotchy; tears dripped from her chin and snot from her upper lip. Molly reached for a dirty T-shirt on the top of the hamper and handed it over. “Wipe and blow.”

She did, and almost looked worse afterward. Molly sat back down and embraced Cait, who laid her head on Molly’s shoulder and clutched her, too. They sat like that for a long time—a couple of minutes, at least. Silent, breathing in and out. Molly soaked in the closeness and tried to shut her mind for this brief, peaceful interval to all the decisions to be made. To the fact that everything had changed for Cait, irrevocably.

At last a long breath shuddered out of her and she straightened. “Would you like a cup of tea? Or cocoa?”

“Cocoa, please.”

They went downstairs. Molly put water on to boil and Cait sat in the dining nook waiting. They had instant, thank goodness; Molly hadn’t been sure, since they didn’t drink it often. She set a spoon in each mug, poured in the boiling water and carried them to the table, where she sat across from Cait.

“Have you told Trevor yet?”

Head bowed, concentrating on stirring, Cait shook her head. “That’s where I went tonight. I tried.”

Molly had guessed as much. “Did you find him?”

“Finally. At a party. But he was with some girl.” She clenched her jaw. “He wouldn’t go off where I could talk to him. And I didn’t want to yell out to the whole room, ‘Hey, guess what, I’m pregnant.’”

“No, I don’t blame you.”

“What can he do anyway?” she asked fiercely.

It was hard, so hard, to hide how angry Molly was. “Depending on what you decide to do, there are ways he can take responsibility, too. He is responsible. At least as much as you are. He’s two years older, Cait.”

“We didn’t use a condom the first time,” Cait said dully. “He did after that, but I could tell he didn’t like how it felt.”

That son of a bitch, was all Molly could think. “At seventeen, he surely understood the consequences,” she said after a moment, trying to hide her rage.

“I’ve been so scared.” The swollen eyes were pathetic. Her nose was starting to run again and Molly handed her a napkin. “I kept thinking my period would start any day, that this couldn’t be happening.”

“How pregnant are you?”

That made Cait drop her eyes. A new tide of red rose from her neck to swallow the blotches on her face. “The first time was, um, six weeks ago,” she mumbled. “So I guess…”

That meant if they were going to seriously consider abortion—and how could they not, given Cait’s age?—it had to be soon. “Oh, sweetie,” Molly murmured. She waited, but Cait didn’t say anything. “Didn’t you know you could talk to me?”

The wet eyes met hers again. “I was so scared,” she repeated. She buried her face in the napkin, finally wiped and blew again. “And I’ve been such a butt.”

“Yes, you have. But remember—”

“No matter what I do, you will always love me because you’re my mother,” she recited, sounding watery.

“Right.”

“Mommy. What do I do?”

“That’s something we’ll have to talk about and think about carefully. But I suspect you know the options. Really, there are only three.”

“I could get an abortion,” Cait said tentatively.

Molly nodded. “That’s one. Two, you can have this baby and give it up for adoption.” It was hard to go on, seeing the stricken look on her daughter’s face. “Or three, you have it and keep it.”

“But…how can I?”

“With great difficulty. There was a time both Trevor’s parents and I would have said the two of you had to get married. He could finish the school year and then get a job.”

“But…he broke up with me.”

“There were consequences to his choosing not to use a condom,” Molly reminded her. “Seniors in high school are planning for the future. They’re thinking about grades, how to pay for college, how to get training for a trade that interests them. A few are even planning to get married once they graduate. Trevor made a choice about the future when he was either in too big a hurry to bother with a condom, or decided he didn’t like how sex feels without one.” She paused, feeling cruel, but knowing this had to be said. “So did you, agreeing to have sex without setting limits.”

A sob hitched in Cait’s throat, but she didn’t leap up and race from the room as Molly had half expected.

“So you think we should get married?” she asked after a minute.

“No. I said there was a time that would have been expected. Nowadays… Well, I suspect most girls in your situation have an abortion. No matter what, you’re too young to marry anyone, and whether you want to admit it or not, Trevor is not a good candidate. He’s an angry young man who has been lashing out at everyone around him. I don’t believe he’s capable right now of being any kind of husband or father.”

“He was…he was really sweet to me.”

“Until he ditched you?”

“It wasn’t like that.” Cait looked wretched. “I think…I think it was my fault.” Molly snorted, and Cait shook her head. “He said I was acting like a little girl, and he’d made a mistake hooking up with someone my age. And…I guess I was, I don’t know, kind of not sure how to act and…” She stumbled to a stop, seeming to run out of words.

“Over your head.”

Another sniffle. “I guess. He’s older and he knew what he was doing and I didn’t and… But I liked him so much, and when he liked me, too…” The last came out as a wail.

Molly felt a burn beneath her breastbone. She understood. How could she not? She’d been a teenager, hopelessly aware of a boy who would never in a million years notice her. And then a freshman in college when a boy like that did notice her—and she, too, had ended up pregnant long before she’d planned for any such eventuality. Yes, she’d been older than Cait, but any wiser? Not so much.

“Right now,” she said, “I think we both need to go to bed.”

“I can’t go to school tomorrow!”

“Yes, you can, and you have to.” She held up a hand when Cait would have interrupted. “You’re not going to be any less scared or upset on Tuesday or Wednesday. Or even next Monday. And if you should decide to carry this baby to term…” Her throat wanted to close up as she envisioned her increasingly pregnant daughter walking the halls of the high school. Or transferring to the alternative school? “Chances are good you won’t make it all the way through the school year. So you’ll miss days then. You can’t afford to miss any now.”

Cait gulped.

“Do you want me to confront Trevor with you? I could call you both to my office....”

“No!” Her daughter leaped to her feet, her face a study in alarm. “You wouldn’t!”

“You have to tell him.”

“I know I do.” She swiped at her eyes. “I will. But I need to do it my own way, okay?”

“Fair enough,” Molly said, although she didn’t agree. “Just…pick your time carefully, okay? Maybe after school?”

Cait nodded. She was crying again. Molly’s heart was wrung by pity, but also some anger, and it wasn’t all aimed at Trevor. She would have sworn Cait was so mature for her age. Molly had nearly treated her as an adult. They’d talked openly about everything, including sex and birth control. And then brooding Trevor Ward had walked into West Fork High School and Cait’s brains had scrambled.

Hormones do that.

I thought I’d Kevlar-vest-armored her against making the same mistakes I did. So what happened?

Trevor happened.

And the truth was—she felt hollow, thinking this for the ten thousandth time and finally understanding it was true—you can’t protect your children. Not 24/7, without fail. Not the way you want to.

I didn’t believe it, Molly admitted, and now she felt grief.

* * *

“CAITLYN CALLAHAN CALLED,” Richard told his son. They didn’t get that many calls on the home phone. The ring had startled him.

Trevor grunted, one foot on the bottom step.

“The third time this week.”

“Yeah, like she can’t talk to me at school.” After that momentary pause, Trevor took the stairs two at a time.

Richard stared after him. What was going on? He’d only caught a glimpse or two of her, but enough to see that Caitlyn was an exceptionally pretty girl. Really pretty. There was a reason Trev had cut her from the herd within days of starting school here. Richard still didn’t know who’d dumped whom, but unless this girl was completely lacking in pride, he had trouble seeing why she’d make a nuisance of herself pursuing his son once he’d lost interest. There had to be plenty of other boys who’d be glad to fill the vacuum.

Frowning after Trevor, Richard gave some serious thought to calling Molly and asking what she knew. But hell, he knew that was overstepping. He had no real grounds for this uneasy feeling. Maybe girls had gotten pushier than they were in his day. Even then, there’d been a few who didn’t hesitate to call a boy, and call again. Let Caitlyn back Trevor into a corner at school if she was determined enough.

He tried to shrug it off, tried not to regret the lack of any good excuse to call Molly, maybe even see her. In the week since the high school dance, he’d come to his senses about asking her out. It was a bad idea all around. She would have said no and he’d have been humiliated. As long as Trevor stood between them, that wasn’t happening, even assuming she’d have been otherwise interested. Maybe next year, once Trev had graduated—if he did. Maybe then, if Richard could determine whether she was really single.

He went to the kitchen to find something to throw together for dinner. He wasn’t much of a cook, which embarrassed him some. But why would he be? Lexa had done the cooking when they were married, and later there wasn’t much motivation, not when the only person he was feeding was himself. Summers when he had the kids, he’d tried harder; made sure he served a vegetable with dinner, grilled steaks, made salads. Even followed a few recipes. The last summer they were here, Trev and Bree had taken turns putting dinner on the table most days, and both of them were pretty decent cooks. Lexa’s influence, Richard guessed. Went without saying that Trev hadn’t so much as turned on the coffeemaker for his father this year.

Trev slouched downstairs for the hamburgers, baked beans and corn Richard served for dinner. For the first weeks, Richard had tried talking during dinner about his day, maybe mentioning some things he’d read in the morning paper, offered an anecdote from when Trev was little. Talking, he’d discovered, was worse than the silence, so sometime in the ten weeks Trevor had now been with him, Richard had given up. They ate in complete silence tonight, although he wanted to ask, Why are you dodging that girl? Why can’t you make it clear you’re not interested? Or is she intent on saying something you don’t want to hear?

He felt a little chill at that last thought. What could she possibly want to say that would have his big bad son ducking and weaving? Was there any chance Trevor actually still had a conscience, and was avoiding the admission that he’d treated her poorly?

But—how had he treated her poorly?

“Please clean the kitchen,” he said, and pushed away from the table. “The Steelers are on, playing Kansas City.”

“Yeah, I don’t care about either team.”

Neither did Richard, but he still enjoyed watching an occasional game. He wasn’t a fanatic; he didn’t give up every Sunday to stay glued to the television. But tonight he thought it would be a good way to unwind.

His phone rang, and he had to go looking. He’d set it down on the kitchen counter when he started work on dinner. He didn’t recognize the caller’s number, which surprised him, but it was a local one.

“Hello?”

“May I speak to Mr. Ward?”

He knew who this was. “Ms. Callahan?” he said in surprise. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Trevor turn slowly from the dishwasher, a dirty plate in his hand.

“That’s right.” She sounded all buttoned-down, not pissed but not friendly, either. “Are you aware that Caitlyn has been trying to reach Trevor?”

“Yes, actually I am. I passed on a message this afternoon.”

“Since he’s refusing to speak to her, I have to ask if we can meet.” There was a pause. “At my home. And I’d appreciate it if you could bring Trevor.”

Oh, shit. This couldn’t be good. His eyes were locked with his son’s. Trevor couldn’t possibly hear what she was saying, but he was braced for something, and it wasn’t good.

“Yes, Ms. Callahan. When?”

“Is Trevor home now?”

“Yes.”

“This evening would work for us.” So Caitlyn was to be included in this showdown. Oh, shit, he thought again. “If tonight’s not good…”

“Tonight’s good,” Richard said. “Where do you live?”

She gave him her address and he told her he didn’t need directions. He’d lived here his entire life, and had worked on what seemed like half the houses in town. Given the address, he knew exactly where she lived—a neighborhood of upscale town houses built…oh, five or six years ago. Ward Electrical had done the wiring, so he even knew the layout options. Each had a pocket front yard and a not much bigger backyard. They were nice places, though—two story, with clean styling he liked, the garages off alleys that were as wide as some city streets.

“We’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he said, still not looking away from Trevor, who was shaking his head frantically. Richard pocketed the phone. “You got the gist of that.”

“Us?” He let loose some obscenities, followed by, “What’s this about? Is Mommy the vice principal going to chew me out because I broke her little girl’s heart?”

“I really doubt that’s what Mommy the vice principal has to say,” Richard said grimly. “Trevor, did you have sex with this girl?”

He had his answer in the panic on his son’s face.

“How old is she?”

“She’s… She wanted it, too!”

“How old?” he ground out.

Trevor swallowed. “Uh…fifteen. I think.”

Richard closed his eyes. “Goddamn it, Trevor.” As if all this would be any better if the girl had passed her sixteenth birthday. Was this a nightmare? Had Trevor just ruined his life, the same way his dad had ruined his?

“Forget the dishes,” he said. “We’re going over there right now to find out what this is about.”

Trevor tried to say no. Vehemently, profanely, even physically. Richard all but dragged him out to the pickup, thrust him in the passenger side. “You will come with me. For the first time since you got off that airplane, you will behave like a decent human being. Do you hear me?”

Breathing hard, eyes black with fear, Trevor finally nodded. Richard went around and got in. Neither said another word, not while the garage door rose, not during the short drive. Not even when he parked at the curb in front of one of the town houses, painted a warm gold with darker gold-and-brown trim.

Molly opened the door, and studied Trevor with slightly narrowed eyes. “Thank you for coming,” she said, and stood back to let them in.

For a moment, despite his tension, she was all Richard saw. Her hair was loose, a cloud of wavy, wayward fire. It was the first time he’d seen it that way. Brown cords emphasized those long legs and hips he fantasized getting his hands on—when he’d had enough of touching her hair. A cowl-necked sweater in something soft bared enough throat and collarbone to jolt him. No freckles. Why didn’t she have freckles?

He gave his libido a good yank and deliberately looked around. Away from Molly.

She led them into a living room that surprised him. Cream walls were hung with textile art, everything from an antique crib-size quilt to a weaving that he guessed was South American. The rugs scattered on the hardwood floor were all interesting, too, some likely vintage if not antique. Bookcases were mostly full of books, but held some art that he thought might be African or South or Central American, too. Different. The coffee table looked Shaker, the sofa was a dark red plush fabric and the two easy chairs were covered in a dark blue and sage green, respectively. Somehow the colors of furniture, rugs and wall hangings all worked together. He saw it all quickly; it was only an impression, but he was impressed.

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