Is an independent cop the best family man?

Niall MacLachlan’s one priority is the law. He fought his way from the wrong side of the tracks to earn his badge and won’t jeopardize it for anything. After all, trusting his family nearly cost him everything as a kid. So, no. This loner has no desire for a wife and children to call his own.

So why is his entirely too attractive landlady, Rowan Staley, slipping past all his defenses? She and her young family—complete with noisy dog—are everything Niall thinks he doesn’t want. But he can’t keep his distance when she turns to him for protection from a neighborhood threat. And in the end, letting her go might be impossible.

Would a man who could be so gentle and patient hurt her?

Rowan stole a sidelong look at Niall. He hadn’t seemed interested in her that way at all, although a few times she’d seen flickers of expression that had made her wonder.

“What if I come with you Friday?” he asked.

“You’re serious.”

“I’m serious.”

Probably, she should make some polite disclaimer, but…he wouldn’t have offered if he hadn’t meant it, would he? “I would love it if you could come.”

“We’ll leave by 7:00 a.m.?”

“Ugh. Yes.”

He laughed. “Sleep tight.”

How wonderful it was to be smiling when she slipped back into the house. Feeling relief and joy and, yes, trepidation, because why was he being so nice? But, oh, she was so grateful that he was.

He was the kind of man she could—

No! Don’t even think it. Not happening.

But she still felt happy. And yes, Niall MacLachlan was the reason why.

Dear Reader,

When I first imagined a hero who played the bagpipe, I envisioned him in a kilt, the dagger thrust in his kneesock. I was influenced, I think, by the commonly known and melancholy history of the pipers stirring the Scots to fight and die at the Battle of Culloden in 1748.

What I didn’t know until I started doing some research was that the bagpipes have a far more ancient lineage than the eighteenth century. Ancient Greek writings dating to fifth century B.C. mention bagpipes. Emperor Nero of Rome may have played a form of bagpipe.

But maybe more significant, I hadn’t given a lot of thought to what the music sounds like. Or perhaps I had, and just didn’t know it. Because Niall MacLachlan was made to play the bagpipe. He mentions at one point playing the lament at a policeman’s funeral. The music he plays fits this man, expresses the hurt he’s held inside his whole life. He’s never admitted to himself how lonely he is, but he chooses to play music that will haunt the listener long after the bagpipe has fallen silent. He turns out to be an extraordinary man who has never dealt with childhood grief. This is one way he can express it while also holding on to one of his few good memories: his father teaching him to play the bagpipes.

Oh, I love heroes like Niall! And I love to torment them, too. I asked myself what kind of woman would be his worst nightmare, and there was Rowan—a young, single mother who is suddenly his landlady living in close proximity. A woman who has a good deal of pride but clearly needs help. Who brings with her two annoying kids and an even more annoying dog. Who steals his peace, and threatens the life he’s chosen for himself.

I hope you fall as deeply in love with Niall as I did.

Janice Kay Johnson

PS—I enjoy hearing from readers! Please contact me

c/o Harlequin Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road,

Don Mills, ON M3B 3K9, Canada.

From Father to Son

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

PROLOGUE

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

PROLOGUE

NIALL MACLACHLAN LAY on the narrow, hard bunk in his cell in the juvenile detention center and stared at the ceiling. This place was a shit hole. He was bored. He should’ve taken a book from the library cart in the rec room earlier. He hadn’t wanted to look like some kind of nerd, though, so he’d played ping pong and watched part of a Mariners game even though he thought baseball was a stupid sport. But now he was alone, even though there were two bunks. Eventually, if he stuck around, they’d throw someone else in with him. Other times he’d been in juvie, he’d had a roommate.

He couldn’t believe he was still here. He’d spent the past two days trying not to think about whether Mom really meant it when she’d told the cop that she was done with Niall and that he could rot in here as far as she was concerned. Other times, she or Dad had come and gotten him. Mom especially would rag on him, and he’d slump down in his seat and tune her out. Totally out. It wasn’t as if she’d actually do anything she threatened, like grounding him or curfews or forbidding him from seeing Tyler or Beck, who she said were bad influences on him. Niall smirked every time she said that. If anyone was the bad influence, it was him.

“And proud of it,” he said to the ceiling.

The words sounded braver than he felt. Truthfully, the two days of silence from his mother alarmed him a little. Okay, he could see why she was mad. This wasn’t the best time for him to get caught smoking a joint. Not when yesterday was Dad’s sentencing. Mom was already freaked about that. But hey—anybody know what the word hypocrite means?

He laughed out loud. My dad the drug dealer. And Mom—who planned to go sit in the front row at his sentencing hearing to make some big fake showing of how Dad is a great family man—is pissed because her son was smoking a joint.

Except… Wow. Mom yelled a lot, but she came and got him anyway when the police called. Only, this time she hadn’t.

Tomorrow, he told himself, pretending the anxiety balled in a greasy lump in his belly was really his stomach rebelling against the crappy food. Mom was trying to scare him, and he was mad at himself that it was working. Some.

A guy down the row started yelling and pounding on the wall. Footsteps echoed in the corridor as a guard went to see what was happening. Eventually, the yelling escalated and there were grunts and thumps. Niall didn’t pay that much attention. There were fights in here all the time, or guys flipped out because they were addicts going cold or they were afraid their mommies would be mad or who knew.

My mom will be mad.

So?

He rolled over to face the wall, knowing lights-out would come anytime. Someone would come and get him tomorrow for sure. All that talk about sending him to a juvenile lockup was bull. For one joint? Yeah, right. They were only trying to scare him, too.

Not working.

NIALL WAS EATING BREAKFAST when a guard called his name. He took another bite to show he wasn’t in any hurry then lazily swung his legs over the bench seat—screwed to the ground so it couldn’t be used as a weapon—and sauntered toward the impatiently waiting guard.

He was ushered to one of the small visitor rooms. It was about damn time she got here. He’d be a good little boy until she got him out, and then he’d tell her what he really thought. Niall was forming the words in his head when he saw who was sitting in one of the two chairs at the small table.

Duncan. Niall’s eighteen-year-old brother, who had graduated from high school in May and was to leave for college in six weeks. A few times, Niall had thought that Duncan was already gone in every way that mattered. Spirit, heart, dreams. Only his body was left to catch up.

But now Duncan sat looking at him, his face so somber Niall felt a weird hitch of fear.

“Where’s Mom?” he demanded.

“She’s…gone.”

Behind them, the guard left and closed the door, although he stood outside where he could watch them through the window.

Niall dropped into the other chair. “What do you mean, gone?”

“Dad got ten years.”

Niall whispered an expletive.

“Yesterday, Mom said she’s done. When I got home from work, she was already packed. She waited only long enough to talk to me. She said she can’t do anything for you or Conall.” Conall was the youngest MacLachlan brother, only twelve to Niall’s fifteen. Con was already a major screwup.

“Gone.” Niall couldn’t look away from Duncan’s eyes, the same shade of gray as his own. “But…we’re her kids. You mean… She can’t just ditch us.” His voice had been rising. At the end it cracked.

Duncan had the strangest expression on his face. What he said was a flat “She did.”

Panic swelled in him until he could hardly breathe.

Mommy? Daddy? I didn’t mean it!

If he didn’t have a parent to come and get him, he would get locked up for a couple of months, maybe. And then sent to a group home. And Conall, he’d go to a foster home. Except he was so angry, he’d get in trouble right away and then nobody would want him. Niall could imagine him running away, ending up a street kid.

Niall clutched his stomach and bent forward until he was bowed over the table. “How could she do that?”

“I don’t know. I think she’s been leaving for a long time. She hasn’t even tried with Conall.”

Niall nodded. He’d wanted her to get mad because he had gotten thrown into juvie again, but the truth was, Mom hadn’t bothered in a long time. Lately, when he was in trouble all she would do was look at him with this blank expression, as if… As if she was already gone. He hadn’t known how to identify that expression, but now he did. It was just like Duncan’s. Both of them were so out of there, they hadn’t waited until their official departure dates.

Niall struggled to speak. To sound as if this didn’t matter. He didn’t realize that he was rocking himself until he bumped the table with his belly. Holding himself still, he said, “So…what? You came to give me the official notification?”

“I came to take you home.”

Dazed, Niall looked up. For the first time he noticed that Duncan looked older. Harder.

“What?”

His brother repeated, “I’m here to get you.”

“They’re releasing me to you?” Niall’s head swiveled and he stared at the guard through the window, as if that would tell him anything.

“Yes. Here’s the thing, though.” Duncan paused, then snapped, “Look at me.”

Niall straightened in the chair to stare in disbelief at the stranger his brother had become.

“Things are going to be different from now on. I won’t put up with any of the shit Mom and Dad did. Most of your friends are history. You won’t drink, you won’t do drugs, you won’t party. You will get your grades up to a minimum B average. You’ll mow the lawn, wash dishes, cook your fair share of meals. When I tell you to do something, you will do it. Do you hear me?”

His brother’s face held no compassion, no kindness, no regret. Only implacable determination.

Niall’s lips formed the word, “Yes.”

“If you defy me in any way, I will become your worst nightmare. Do you understand that?”

Niall nodded. He understood something wonderful and terrible at the same time. Duncan had given up his chance to leave for college. He’d given up everything, because his brothers needed him.

Niall understood something else, too. In making the decision not to abandon them, this big brother of his had changed. The frighteningly intense focus that had made Duncan valedictorian of his class and star athlete all while holding jobs and saving money for the future that had meant everything to him, that focus would now be turned on Conall and Niall. He would demand of them what he’d always demanded of himself. Perfection.

I can’t do it.

Duncan’s eyes had acquired a film of ice, like a winter pond. There was no love in them, only resignation and resolution so cold Niall had to repress a shiver.

He thought, I’m going to hate him, and then, with agony and shock, This is love. Hard as bedrock. The real deal.

The kind neither of their parents had ever given them.

CHAPTER ONE

MAYBE IF I WENT BACK to bed and started over.

Detective Niall MacLachlan looked down at the dead body sprawled on the kitchen floor and knew that no do-over was possible.

The body was not a murder victim. It was the corporeal shell of his landlady.

He attempted no resuscitation. He knew dead when he saw dead. Rigor mortis had set in. The old lady must have gotten up during the night. Niall knew she hadn’t been sleeping well. Heartburn, she’d told him, but she kept nitroglycerin at hand.

This wasn’t what you’d call a tragedy. Enid Cooper had turned eighty-eight in April. She’d lost two inches in height from crumbling bones and had confessed to Niall that she hurt all the time. Her worst fear had been ending up in a nursing home.

Maybe, he thought, her last emotion had been relief. He’d like to think so.

She had family who would mourn, he guessed. He didn’t know them, had been careful to avoid any introductions, but he’d seen a young woman with two little kids come and go. She’d mowed the lawn this spring and summer. Niall had kept his distance, but had paused a couple of times to admire her. She was a small, curvy package with fabulous legs. She was also, however, a mother and likely a wife. He suspected she would be Enid’s heir, too.

Which made Enid’s decision to kick the bucket very bad news for him. He was a selfish son of a bitch to be thinking about himself right now, but he had time to kill while he waited for the appropriate authority to take over. Beyond tugging down the hem of Enid’s nightgown so that her birdlike, liver-spotted legs were decently covered, there wasn’t anything he could do for her.

He’d signed a new one-year lease not six weeks ago. This would be his second year living in the tiny cottage tucked on the back of the large lot, behind Enid’s 1940s-era bungalow. Living here had worked out fine for him. Enid ignored him and didn’t mind that he ignored her. She was deaf as a post and didn’t like to be bothered with her hearing aid, which she said whined. Niall played the bagpipe. Your average landlord or landlady did not consider him an ideal tenant. Enid and he were a match made in heaven. He didn’t like to think what was going to happen now.

A uniformed officer arrived and Niall explained that he’d come to check on Enid because the kitchen light wasn’t on. This time of the morning, she would have long since had breakfast and tea. Enid tended to linger over her tea. He’d knocked on the back door, gotten no response and felt enough alarm he’d gone back to his cottage to get the key she had given him in case of emergency.

“I’d hate to die and not be found for so long I shrivelled up like a mummy,” she’d told him. “I don’t much like that idea. So if you don’t see me around, feel free to check.”

He could do that. She’d asked little enough of him. Rental payment once a month—which he deposited directly into her bank account as getting out was hard for her—and the understanding that he’d keep an eye on her from a distance.

Enid had been dead for a few hours, but the mortician would get his hands on her before she began serious decomposition. Niall hadn’t told her that in the incessantly damp climate of the Pacific Northwest, corpses didn’t dry up leatherlike. He didn’t tell her that what did happen to them was a whole lot more unpleasant than mummification.

He hoped that if she was opposed to being embalmed she’d have discussed it with her family.

It was with relief that he escaped after a silent goodbye.

As luck would have it, the first person he saw when he arrived at the public safety building that housed the police department was his brother Duncan. Captain Duncan MacLachlan, only one rung below the police chief who was currently under fire for publicly making a racist remark and who was at risk for being fired. Even though Duncan was a hard-ass, he backed his officers and was known for being fair, smart and the soul of integrity. The general hope was that the city council would give the job to him, rather than hiring from outside the department.

Niall had very mixed feelings for his brother.

They were a hell of a lot closer than they’d been even a year ago, though. Duncan had mellowed when he’d fallen in love. Niall had watched the process with bemusement.

Duncan had pushed through the doors on his way out, and the two of them stepped aside so they weren’t in the way of traffic. Although barely midmorning, it had to be eighty degrees already. A humid eighty degrees.

“You just getting here?”

“I found my landlady dead.”

Duncan nodded without apparent surprise. “What’ll that do to your lease?”

Niall grinned. Trust his big brother to hold no sentimental feelings whatsoever. Except where Jane was concerned, of course. Niall shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll find out.”

Rather than offering another brisk nod and continuing on his way, Duncan kept standing there. He was wearing one of the suits that made him appear more like a politician than a cop, and he had to be looking forward to the air-conditioning in that big SUV he drove. But instead of heading for it, he shifted his weight, hemmed and hawed.

“I was going to call you today,” he finally said.

Niall was entertained by the unexpected and unnatural sight of Captain MacLachlan looking irresolute.

“Yeah?”

“Jane wants you to come to dinner. Tonight or tomorrow?”

“Is there an occasion?”

Expression strangely vulnerable, Duncan met his eyes. “Jane’s pregnant.”

Niall found himself momentarily speechless. “This a surprise?” he asked at last.

Duncan shook his head. “No. I’m thirty-seven, Jane’s thirty-two. We didn’t want to wait too long.”

“My brother, a daddy.” Niall smiled broadly. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“How far along is she?”

“Three months. She wanted to wait until she was past the danger point before we let people know. You’re, uh, the first.”

Niall nodded, feeling honored even though—face it—there wasn’t a whole lot of competition here. Jane was alienated entirely from her family, and Niall was the only member of Duncan’s who had a relationship with him. Mom had made no effort to stay in touch with any of them, and Duncan had rebuffed Dad’s one attempt to reconnect. Conall hadn’t spoken to Duncan in close to ten years. That left—ta da!—Niall.

“I’ll be an uncle,” he said, disconcerted by the idea.

His brother shared one of his rare grins. “Yeah, you will.”

“Huh.”

Still smiling, Duncan clapped him on the back. “Dinner?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“I’ll tell Jane.” With long strides, he headed across the parking lot.

Niall stood where he was, watching him go. Well, damn, he thought, and felt a funny ache inside. He might have labeled it as jealousy, except he didn’t want any of what Duncan had.

Still, a baby MacLachlan. Who’d have thunk?

HOMICIDE AND MAJOR CRIMES detectives almost never fired a gun outside of the range, where they were required to keep their skills sharp. The telephone and the internet were their tools. They spent a lot of time on hold. They talked. They listened. They pretended to understand and sympathize with scumbags.

Which was probably why Niall was a little slower than he should have been reaching for his Glock.

During a belated lunch break, he had pulled into the bank parking lot with the intention of going in to deposit a check. Before he could get out of the car, his attention was caught by the sight of a guy hustling out of the bank gripping the arm of a woman who was walking really, really close to him. The incongruous part was that with both hands she clutched a black plastic trash bag, stuffed full. And—oh, hell—she looked scared out of her skull.

At the exact same moment Niall’s brain clicked into gear, the guy looked at Niall’s car which, while unmarked, shouted cop car. Plain maroon, but a big, powerful sedan. Grille behind the driver’s seat. Serious radio antenna. Then his eyes met Niall’s and he lifted a handgun.

Niall flung open the door and dove out at the exact moment the passenger window exploded.

He snatched his Glock from the holster and groped for his radio. “Shots being fired. Bank robbery in progress,” he managed to spit out before stealing a peek over the trunk.

Another shot rang out. Brick chips flew from the wall a few feet from his head.

Damn, damn, damn. The guy had dragged the woman behind a minivan in the lot. He had a hostage, and he was seriously willing to do anything to get away. Including killing a cop.

Niall hadn’t taken a shot yet. He wouldn’t until he thought he had a good one. God. Even aside from the hostage, there were other people in the parking lot, businesses across the street, passing cars.

Niall swiveled on his heels and saw a woman who had gotten out of her RAV4 standing not fifteen feet away with the keys in her hand, her mouth forming a horrified O. He gestured vehemently, relieved when she gasped and threw herself out of sight around the front of the vehicle. Other people farther away were gaping, too freaking stupid to realize a stray bullet could catch them. A man came running out of the bank yelling, but ducked back when a bullet chipped more bricks inches from him.

Niall’s car jumped when another burst of fire found metal. He dropped flat to the pavement so he could see the feet beneath the minivan. Black bag, too. He wondered if the teller had gotten a dye pack in it. He grunted. Man, this was going to be a mess no matter how it played out. The FBI would be all over it, and who wanted to deal with them? Although he wouldn’t mind if they showed up right now.

The feet were moving. Toward the rear of the vehicle. So it wasn’t the guy’s minivan, or the woman’s, either. The guy was figuring to bolt for cover behind another car. Make his way to his own, maybe. Time was his enemy. He had to get away before more cops arrived and he got surrounded.

Sirens sounded, but not close.

Niall rose to a crouch and crab-walked forward, rounding the hood of his car. He snatched a quick look, his finger tight on the trigger, and saw that the guy had pushed the woman out into view. She once again clutched the trash bag in front of her as if it were a shield. Niall had never seen such terror on anyone’s face. Was she a teller? An unlucky customer?

Wait. Wait.

The guy appeared. Not enough of him—he was using the woman for cover. He took a wild shot to pin Niall down, but it was the back window of the car that imploded. Good. He’d miscalculated which direction Niall would move.

Wait.

Niall had never felt so steady, so cool. He was thinking, waiting with extraordinary patience, willing the instant to come when he could kill this bastard without unduly risking the woman.

There. The woman stumbled. Niall pulled the trigger and the Glock jerked in his hand exactly as it did at the gun range. Bang, bang, bang. Blood blossomed; glass on the minivan exploded; the woman fell forward, then, screaming, began to crawl away.

The bank robber was down, broken glass all around him. His handgun skittered away across the pavement from inert fingers. He lay sprawled, unmoving.

Glock held out in the firing position, Niall walked cautiously forward until he stood only feet from the man. There was one hell of a lot of blood. Dead, he thought coldly. His second dead body for the day. At least he’d only killed one of them.

This was also, however, his second shooting resulting in a fatality in the past year. The first was a crazy guy who’d intended to slit Jane’s throat. Niall had gotten there ahead of Duncan, so he’d been the one to take the shot. He’d as soon this didn’t become a habit, he reflected, in that weird way a mind worked at a moment like this.

Sirens rose to a crescendo. Police cars slammed to a halt blocking both exits from the bank parking lot. Officers leaped out and took cover. A lot of weapons were drawn on Niall.

Something made his glance slide sidelong to the broken windows of the minivan, and a monster of fear rose in him. There was a child car seat inside. A Mercedes-Benz of car seats, it occurred to him, even as he realized there was a kid in that seat, slumped forward. Blood was shockingly red against the dandelion-pale fluff of hair.

Please God, don’t let me have killed that kid.

THERE WERE ONLY A FEW mourners at Enid Cooper’s funeral. Her contemporaries were gone, or in assisted living. A couple of neighbors were there, and Rowan Staley and her father. Not Mom; she and Dad had separated and filed for divorce.

At least Rowan had persuaded her parents-in-law not to attend. She had been able to leave the kids with them. Maybe at six years old Desmond had been old enough to attend a funeral, but why should he have to? It wasn’t an open casket; Rowan wouldn’t have that. Gran had had a thing about dignity; she would have hated the idea of everyone filing past gazing at her wrinkled, dead face.

Gran’s tenant, whose name escaped Rowan, was here, too. When she’d seen him coming and going at Gran’s, he’d never stopped to introduce himself or anything like that. A couple of times he had given a distant nod before disappearing inside the tiny cottage. Despite his unfriendliness, Rowan had actually been glad to know he was there. After her divorce, she’d had the wistful thought that she could live in the cottage, but it wasn’t big enough for her and the kids. And even though Gran had room in her house, she was too old and not patient enough to live with a rambunctious kindergartener and a wistful four-year-old. Never mind the dog. Gran didn’t hold with animals being in the house. Rowan hadn’t had any choice but to take the kids and move in with her in-laws, relieved that Gran would be safer having a law enforcement officer living right there behind her house.

She’d been told he was the one who’d found Gran. And he’d cared enough to come today to pay his respects. Rowan wondered if he would bother speaking to her or her father after the service was over. She was betting not.

The minister was talking, but it was like the sound of running water to Rowan. Pleasant but holding no meaning. He hadn’t even known Gran. She hadn’t attended a church service in at least ten years, maybe more. He was young, new. This was his standard spiel. His tone was filled with warmth and regret, which she appreciated even though he couldn’t possibly feel either emotion. This was like a stage performance for him, she supposed.

I should be listening.

Dad’s gaze was fixed somewhere in the vicinity of the pastor, but his expression was abstracted. He and his mother hadn’t been close; as she’d gotten older and crankier, she’d also become increasingly disapproving. Gran had been one hundred percent disgusted with her son’s recent conduct. But still. He must have good memories. Regrets that were way more genuine than the pastor’s. As mad as Rowan often felt at her dad, what if he died and she had to sit at his funeral trying to remember the last time she’d said “I love you?” Remembering the angry words they’d exchanged?

She gave a shudder and stole a look sideways, to find that Gran’s tenant had turned his head and was watching her. Goose bumps chased over her skin. He had a craggy face, dark red hair cut short and flint-gray eyes. Eyes that were—not cold, Rowan had decided the first time she’d seen him. Remote. As if he stood a thousand paces from the rest of humanity. Didn’t know her, didn’t want to know her. Or anybody else.

It had to be her imagination. Maybe it was a typical cop look, cynicism to the nth degree. Or maybe he didn’t like her. Did he think she’d neglected Gran? The thought filled her with outrage. She glared at him, saw his eyebrows twitch, then he inclined his head the slightest amount to acknowledge her existence and turned his attention to the front.

Why had he been looking at her at all? Did he guess she was Gran’s heir and therefore his new landlady? Or would he have assumed he would be dealing with Dad?

Dad had been a little put out when the will was read and he found out his mother hadn’t left either her relatively modest savings nor her house to him, but to his credit he’d mostly been rueful.

“The two of you always were close,” he had said, shrugging. “And you’ve been trying to take care of her.”

Rowan wished now she had been able to do more.

Or maybe Gran had known. Guessed, anyway. Rowan hadn’t talked even to Gran about her marriage, or her shame at feeling relieved when Drew died. She hadn’t admitted how miserable she was living with his parents, who were entirely fixated on her children. Their Andrew, her husband, had been an only child.

“Desmond and Anna are all we have left,” one or the other of them said, too often. The hunger in their gazes when they looked at their grandchildren unnerved Rowan. There was too much need, too much desperation, too many expectations being fastened on young children who didn’t understand any of it.

The Staleys had been shocked when she informed them that she had inherited her grandmother’s house and would be moving into it with Anna and Desmond. She couldn’t cope without them, they declared, and they didn’t like it when she insisted that she could. It was true that she hadn’t been able to cope before this, not financially, anyway. She worked as a paraeducator—a teacher’s aide—at the elementary school. She didn’t make enough money to pay for daycare for Anna, as well as rent. But now she would be able to afford a preschool for Anna. She would own her very own home, and have rental income, as well, from the cottage.

Paid by the man with the russet hair and chilly gray eyes. She didn’t know how she felt about the idea of him living so close. Perhaps she’d scarcely see him. It hadn’t sounded as if he and Gran had much more than a nodding acquaintance.

Rowan hoped he liked dogs. She might be able to keep the kids away from him, but Super Sam the dog didn’t grasp the concept of boundaries. Thank heavens Gran’s backyard was fenced. The unfortunate part was, the cottage was inside the fence. The kids and tenant both would have to learn to close gates.

She stole another look at him to find that he appeared entirely expressionless. Somehow she felt quite sure he wasn’t thinking about Gran any more than Dad was.

Any more than I am. Rowan felt a quick stab of guilt. Oh, Gran. I did love you. I will be grateful for the rest of my life for this gift you’ve given me.

Freedom.

STILL SWEATING OVER the bank parking-lot shooting, Niall hadn’t gotten to sleep until nearly 3:00 a.m. This had been a hell of a few days. Only yesterday he’d had to face an Internal Affairs panel to justify his actions, as if he wasn’t second-guessing himself already, the way any good cop would. Then his sleep wasn’t restful, any more than it had been the past few nights. No surprise to wake filled with horror. The last images of the nightmare were extraordinarily vivid. In his dream he’d reached for the little kid with the pale fluff of hair, lifting the child’s chin to see dead eyes that still accused him even now.

Damn it, he thought viciously, scrubbing his hands over his face. Enough already.

Niall got up to use the john, splashed cold water on his face and stared at himself in the mirror.

Bad enough he’d shot and killed a man. He’d learned a lesson last year, when he’d killed for the first time: you paid a price for taking a life, even if taking it had been the right thing to do. Mostly, he thought it right and just he should suffer some doubts, be plagued by nightmares. Killing wasn’t something anyone should take lightly.

The little girl, though, that was something else. She’d come within a hair’s breadth of having her head blown off. God. What if it had been my bullet? As much as her face, that was the question driving him crazy.

Knowing sleep would be elusive, he went back to bed, where he lay staring up at the dark ceiling, hitting the replay button over and over and over until the tape should be wearing out. The gray of dawn was seeping between the slats of the window blinds before he fell asleep again.

The sound of slamming doors, shrill, excited voices and a barking dog jerked him from sleep. What the…? With a groan, he rolled his head on the pillow to peer blearily at the bedside clock. Eight-thirty. He was going to kill someone.

Even half-asleep with his head pounding, he winced at that. Now that he actually had killed two men, those words didn’t come as lightly to him as they once had.

He sat up and put his feet to the floor. A woman was laughing, a low, delighted trill. A kid yelled something and the dog went into another frenzy of barking. There were other voices—several adults. The racket had to be at the next-door neighbor’s. Enid was barely in the ground. Her estate couldn’t possibly be settled.

He staggered from his bedroom into the combination living room/kitchen/dining room and separated the slats of the blinds on the front window enough to give him a view of Enid’s house. Then he stared in disbelief.

Oh, crap. Oh, hell. Oh…

A U-Haul truck had been backed into the driveway. The cargo door was already rolled up. A couple of people were currently hauling a mattress out of the truck and down the metal ramp. A dog was running in crazed circles on the lawn, chased by a boy and, trailing well behind, a tiny girl in pink overalls and purple shoes that, to Niall’s dazed eyes, seemed to be flashing sparkling lights. The back door of Enid’s house stood open. A woman was carrying a lamp in. She’d no sooner disappeared inside than a different woman came out empty-handed. She called something to the kids, who were too busy running in frenetic circles to acknowledge her.

It was the granddaughter. The curvy package with the fabulous legs, exposed almost as effectively in snug jeans as when she wore short shorts. Those were her two kids. The dog… Was it theirs? The husband was probably one of those men.

An expletive escaped Niall’s lips. They were moving in. An entire family was moving into Enid’s house, separated from his cottage by the width of a lawn and one old apple tree.

He kept staring, shock almost—but not quite—numbing him. There would be a swing hanging from the branch of that apple tree before he knew it. The dog would crap all over the lawn and set up an uproar every time Niall came and went. The kids would have friends over. Soon, there wouldn’t be two of them, there would be half a dozen.

This was his worst nightmare.

He’d have to break the lease.

And pay massive penalties, unless Enid’s granddaughter was as eager to see him gone as he was to go.

Uh-huh. And where would he be going to?

Maybe it was time he bought a house, he reflected. He could certainly afford to. But the idea had always filled him with uneasiness. It still did. A one-year lease was all the commitment he’d ever wanted to make. Actually owning his own house, his own piece of land, putting down roots… Making some kind of unspoken promise, if only to himself, to stay here, in his hometown....

He let the blinds spring back into place but stayed where he was, staring at them. Outside the pandemonium continued.

There had to be another rental somewhere that would be suitable. This was Sunday. Once everything settled down out there, he’d slip out and grab his newspaper. Maybe he’d spot an ad that said something like, Nice house, Privacy! No near neighbors!

Rural. That’s what he needed, Niall decided grimly. So what if it took him longer to drive to work, if come spring he had to fight the traffic congestion caused by tourists out to view the tulip and daffodil fields?

God help me, he thought, and stumbled into the tiny kitchenette to put on a pot of coffee. Clearly, going back to bed wasn’t happening.

AT FOUR-THIRTY IN THE afternoon, a firm rat-a-tat-tat on his door made Niall go on sharp alert. He’d been lying on his sofa brooding, feeling trapped. Would he never be able to come and go without risking the possibility of having to exchange neighborly greetings?

He swore under his breath and stood. It would be her, of course. No, maybe not. Maybe he’d get lucky and be able to deal with the husband. If there was one.

No such luck. Not only the woman stood on his doorstep, but her two children, the little girl latched on to her leg and gazing suspiciously at him, the boy’s eyes filled with curiosity. The dog was trying to shove between them and get in the door. Niall automatically stuck out a foot to foil the break-in.

His gaze traveled up—although it didn’t have to go very far—to meet the young woman’s. She was sort of a blonde, with big brown eyes. Bangs were pushed to one side, and the rest of her baby-fine hair was in a ponytail. Maybe her hair was really brown and she’d had it highlighted.... But Niall shook off that conjecture immediately. She wore no makeup, the bangs looked like she trimmed them herself, and she had a big splotch of what could have been mustard on her faded T-shirt. Which, he couldn’t help noticing, fit snugly over generous breasts. C cup for sure.

He became aware that, as he studied her, she was likewise inspecting him from his bare feet to his equally faded T-shirt. He thought she looked both wary and apprehensive. His mouth quirked slightly when he noticed that the little girl, who had moonlight-pale hair but Mommy’s soft brown eyes, had an identical expression on her face. Her clutch on her mother’s thigh tightened.

“I’m afraid I don’t know your name,” the woman said.

He actually did know hers, he’d realized yesterday even before being handed the program for the service. Enid had mentioned it a couple of times. It had caught in his memory only because Rowan was an unusual name.

“Niall MacLachlan,” he said. “I assume you’re Enid’s granddaughter.”

“Yes. Rowan Staley.” She had a beautiful voice. The trill of laughter he’d heard earlier had to have been hers. “These are my children, Desmond and Anna.”

The boy piped up, “Hi.” The girl only stared, her eyes narrowing.

Niall had the thought that he could develop a soft spot for her.

“Hello,” he said and then waited, meantime keeping a cautious eye on the dog who had made an enthusiastic, tail-wagging circuit of the yard and was now closing in again. The damn thing looked as if he’d been put together with spare parts. Niall had seen garden art in which rusting springs, trowels and what-not were welded together to form fantastical animals. The dog was even rust-colored.

“We’ve moved into the house,” Rowan said.

No shit. He nodded then couldn’t resist saying, “Pretty quick.”

Her eyes narrowed, increasing the resemblance to her tiny daughter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I was surprised, that’s all.”

“I’m Gran’s sole heir. There’s no one to object and no point in the house sitting empty while the will goes through probate.”

His answering stare was deliberately bored. She flushed, giving her a rosy-cheeked look. No elegant cheekbones here. She wasn’t plump, but she had a lot of curves packed onto a frame that couldn’t possibly top five-foot-two or -three.

“I’m now your landlady,” she said sharply.

The dog sprang forward, forcing woman and children to stagger aside, and flung himself happily at Niall.

“Sit!” he snapped. Apparently surprised, the animal dropped to its haunches. Equally surprised, his family stared at him. Niall said, “Have you looked into that ugly dog contest? There might be prize money.”

“That’s not nice!” the boy exclaimed. “Super Sam is…is…”

Something like a chuckle was welling up in Niall’s chest. He suppressed it.

Rowan looked as indignant as her son. “How can you say that? Sam’s…cute.”

The cute came out kind of weak. Niall let his silence speak for itself.

The little girl said in a sweet, high voice, “We love Sam.”

The dog leaped up, ran a wet pink tongue over her face and bounded off. After a small sigh, Rowan said, “Speaking of Sam. One of the things I came by for was to ask that you keep the gate closed. He doesn’t have an awful lot of common sense, and he, er, likes to dig holes, which some of the neighbors might not appreciate, so we really need to keep him confined.”

That was a nuisance, but not unreasonable. Niall nodded. “I can do that.”

“Thank you.” She was trying for crisp sarcasm, but couldn’t quite pull it off. Not her style, Niall thought.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“I haven’t yet had a chance to study the rental agreement,” Rowan said. “Once I have, perhaps we can talk about it.”

“What’s to talk about? Unless one of us doesn’t intend to honor it?”

She didn’t look away. “And which one of us would that be?”

“Depends on how things go, doesn’t it?”

Her lips compressed. “Yes. It does.” She backed up a step, taking her children with her. “Mr. MacLachlan…”

“Detective. I’m with Stimson P.D.”

He saw the moment she made the connection. “I read about you in the paper.” And, clearly, hadn’t liked what she’d read. She opened her mouth to say more, glanced down at Desmond and changed her mind. “What a pleasure it’s been to meet you,” she said, and this time the sarcasm worked better. So well, in fact, that he couldn’t help smiling.

His new landlady looked momentarily startled, then mad. She gave a nod that made her ponytail bob and her bangs swing, then steered her kids off the porch. Both their heads were turning to look back as she marched them across the lawn.

Still smiling, Niall closed the door. With luck, his all-too-close neighbors wouldn’t come calling again in the near future. The kid—Desmond—was right. Niall wasn’t very nice. He reflected that he’d been inspired by the hot pepper stuff orthodontists gave parents to apply to their kids’ thumbs when they wouldn’t quit sucking on them. A preventative measure.

His smile died, though, at the memory of overhearing his sergeant grumble about how his five-year-old had developed a taste for the damn pepper, and was sucking her thumb even more now.

Okay, not foolproof, but worth a try.

CHAPTER TWO

THE GUILT WAS GETTING him down.

He’d expected to struggle with some complex emotions regarding the shooting. Niall didn’t question his decision to take down the bank robber, who’d been doing his damnedest to kill Niall and very possibly would have shot the poor teller once he didn’t need her. The adrenaline kept surging, though, at unexpected moments. That was okay; he knew from experience that this was a problem time would cure.

It was the sight of the toddler in the car seat that was haunting him, waking and sleeping. Two days ago, Duncan had called to let him know that the bloody bullet embedded in the car door beside the little girl wasn’t Niall’s. Relief had dropped him into a chair with a thud. Thank God, was all he could think. He already knew she’d gone home after only a two-night stay in the hospital. The bullet had barely creased her skull.

Not my bullet.

But, damn, it had been a close call. He’d known how high risk a shoot-out was in the middle of town with civilians all around. People often sat waiting in a parked car—although he was still infuriated at the father who had left a child that age alone while he went into the bank. Niall couldn’t seem to stop asking himself whether he’d done the right thing. If he’d backed off somehow, given the guy space to make a getaway… But he couldn’t figure how he could have done that. And then there was the hostage.

In the week since the incident, he’d gone around and around a million times, never arriving at any satisfactory conclusion. Unfortunately, Niall had had an abundance of time to brood, since he was on routine leave following the shooting. Instead of doing desk work, he had chosen to use vacation days. He had a hell of a lot of them saved to use.

And now he felt like crud over being so rude to a woman who was probably perfectly nice and had been well-intentioned. Two little kids, too, who’d stared at him with shocked eyes by the time Mom hastily bore them away. No, he wasn’t the friendliest guy on earth, but he knew he’d have been more civil if he hadn’t been sleep-deprived and on edge.

He finally ventured out two days after that initial meet-and-greet to ease his conscience. Rowan and the children were in the backyard. She seemed to be happily setting pink flowering geraniums into pots on the porch. A green plastic sandbox shaped like a turtle had appeared yesterday, and the girl sat in it with a shovel and bucket. The boy and dog both had crawled beneath the giant rhododendrons that had grown dark limbs together along the fence line.

The girl—Anna—and Rowan both turned their heads at the sound of his door and watched him as he walked across the grass toward them. He half expected tiny Anna to bolt for her mom, but she didn’t move.

Rowan eyed him without welcome. Damn, she was pretty, he thought, dismayed at his seemingly unstoppable physical reaction to her. She was more wholesome than his usual type, but that might be because he avoided the home-and-hearth kind of woman like the plague. This one had such a lush body, what man wouldn’t notice?

“Hi,” he said. “I, uh, thought maybe I could be a little more civil than I was the other day.”

“That wouldn’t be hard.”

He grinned. “No. I guess it wouldn’t.”

“Did you get out of bed on the wrong side?”

“Something like that,” he admitted. He glanced to be sure neither kid had gotten too close. “You read about the shooting, I gather.”

Rowan nodded, expression cool.

“The aftermath of something like that is always…unsettling. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“I read it wasn’t you who shot the child.”

“No. I was trying to be very conscious of how many people were in potential danger. Even so…” He sighed. “It was a relief to know it wasn’t my gun.”

“But it could have been.”

“I actually only pulled the trigger a couple of times, when I was pretty certain I had a clean shot to take him down. He was the one spraying bullets all over the parking lot.”

She looked down at the trowel in her gloved hands. “At least she’s okay.”

Niall made a sound of agreement even though he felt defensive. Maybe he still hadn’t resolved in his own mind how much responsibility he bore for that little girl’s near miss, but that was different than seeing judgment in some civilian’s eyes.

“You did some nice things for Gran,” Rowan said.

He shifted uncomfortably. Sure, he’d done a few repairs, rebuilt those back steps Rowan’s feet rested on, picked up groceries and prescriptions a few times, but that was common decency, nothing above and beyond.

Those soft-as-a-pansy brown eyes met his. “Do you intend to stay?”

He hesitated. “I’m not a hundred percent sure.” How did he say, It depends how noisy and intrusive your kids are? “Do you have a husband in the picture?” He hadn’t seen one, but could have missed him.

Her face tightened. “I’m a widow.”

He said the polite thing. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugged.

“Well,” he said. “I was depositing the rent directly into Enid’s account. Let me know how you want me to handle it now.”

“All right.”

The boy crawled back out from beneath the rhodies, followed by the dog. The boy had acquired a few scratches and quite a bit of dirt. The dog—well, his coarse, rusty coat probably never looked clean. Spotting Niall, the dog tore across the lawn, the boy following at a trot. Niall braced himself for possible impact.

“Sit!”

The dog sat.

“How do you do that?” Rowan asked, eyes wide with astonishment. “Super Sam and I went through an obedience course, and it didn’t do a speck of good.”

“I mean it, and he can tell.”

She glowered at the dog, who was obviously desperate to leap up. His tail was swinging furiously, his butt waggling with it, and his big brown eyes, a deeper brown than his mistress’s, were fixed on Niall’s face.

With resignation, Niall said, “Okay, boy,” and submitted to a fervent greeting. The boy hung back shyly, but looked as if he, too, would have liked to bound at Niall.

“I have a goldfish.”

He looked down to see the girl had abandoned her sandbox to come stand beside him. Her head was tilted back to allow her to stare up at him.

He cleared his throat. “Do you?”

“Uh-huh. You wanna see?”

No. Hell, no! He was going to be so sorry if he let these kids think he wanted to be buddies. He shot a helpless look at Rowan, who was smiling softly at her daughter, apparently oblivious to his discomfiture.

“Uh…I’ve seen goldfish.”

“My goldfish is named Goldie. ’Cuz he’s gold.”

“Goldfish are really orange,” Desmond said importantly. “You should have named him Orangie.” He cackled at his humor.

His sister ignored him. “I won Goldie.”

“At the school carnival,” the boy said. “She threw a quarter into a jar.” His tone suggested it had been an accident. “She picked Goldie, ’stead of one of the stuffed animals.” His gaze slid to Rowan. “Mom wasn’t very happy. She tried to talk Anna into trading Goldie in for a panda bear, but she wouldn’t.”

“Goldie’s alive,” Anna informed him.

Niall’s sense of humor was apparently alive and well, too, in defiance of his recent crappy mood. He was trying to hide his smile when he met Rowan’s, rueful but beautiful.

A small hand crept into his and tugged. Niall started.

“Come see Goldie.”

“Anna…” her mother began, but he shook his head.

“It’s okay.”

Desmond stuck close as they went in the house. Super Sam let out a pitiful whine when the screen door slammed shut in his face. As he allowed himself to be pulled through the house and upstairs, Niall heard Rowan talking to the dog.

The family was far from unpacked, but Anna’s bed was covered by a pink-and-purple comforter imprinted with unicorns and princesses and a castle. Her white-painted dresser had pink ceramic drawer pulls. Goldie lived in a glass bowl atop the dresser. A very small castle sat on the bottom of the bowl, and a couple of strands of fake seagrass waved in the water as he swam hopeless circles around the perimeter.

Niall learned that Goldie liked being talked to. Desmond fed the fish a few flakes; Mom wouldn’t let Anna feed the fish, he said, because she dumped in too much food, which wasn’t good for him.

“I get to feed Sam, too. He’s my dog.”

Anna’s lower lip shot out. “Is not!”

“Is, too.”

“Is not! He’s our dog. Mommy said so.”

“Well, I take care of him.”

She wanted to argue about that, but evidently couldn’t. She contented herself with a scowl, unnatural on her small, elfin face.

Niall took a look at Desmond’s room, too, where a spaceship was under construction with Lego bricks. Plastic as well as stuffed dinosaurs seemed to be the dominant theme. He resisted their invitation to look at Mommy’s bedroom, too. That was a picture he’d just as soon not have in his head.

Rowan studied him narrowly when the three of them came back outside.

“You’ve made some changes,” he observed.

“I plan to make more. Gran hadn’t painted or remodeled in forever.”

Probably never, was his guess.

“We’re keeping most of her furniture for now, though. I didn’t keep most of ours when…” She didn’t have to finish.

He nodded.

“We lived with our grandparents,” Desmond said.

Niall turned his head to look at the boy. There had been something in his voice. Reserve. For a kid as outgoing as him, that was unusual. Rowan was watching her son, too, a few lines marring her forehead, but she didn’t say anything. It seemed there was a good reason for her hasty move to Enid’s house.

“Desmond having to change schools?” he asked casually.

Rowan shook her head. “My in-laws live only about a mile away. Walking distance, really.”

She didn’t sound altogether happy about that. Given his job, Niall was used to listening for undertones, and there were plenty here. But they weren’t his problem, he reminded himself. In no way, shape or form.

“I need to be going. Grocery shopping,” he decided, impromptu. He hesitated, his inner jerk doing battle with nice-guy Niall, who won the tussle. He said reluctantly, “If you need me to pick anything up for you…”

She beamed at him. “That’s really nice of you. But not today, thanks.”

Oh, this was going to come back to bite him in the ass. They all thought he wanted to be friends now. And he so didn’t.

He did like that smile, though. It had something in common with the bright, cheerful flowers she was planting. It was a happy smile.

The realization that she hadn’t looked happy the rest of the time gave him momentary pause. There were as many shadows in her eyes as he saw in his own every morning when he shaved in front of the mirror. He wondered when her husband had died and how. Why she’d moved in with the husband’s parents instead of staying in whatever home she’d already had. Why she’d fled the in-laws’ the instant the opportunity offered itself.

He was frowning when he let himself out the gate, rolled his motorcycle out of the detached garage and donned his helmet.

Not your business. You don’t want to know.

No. He’d have to raise avoiding them to an art form, for his own self-preservation. He didn’t get involved. Not with anybody, far less a sweet-faced young widow and her children.

It was a shame about the children, though, and the sweet face, given how sinfully sexy her petite body was. Shaking his head with regret, he kicked the Harley’s engine to throaty life and steered out of the driveway.

THREE DAYS LATER, Rowan suddenly realized how quiet the house was. She stuck her head out of the kitchen. “Desmond?”

No answer.

She followed the sound of the television to the living room, where a Disney movie played. Anna lay curled up on the sofa, sound asleep.

Rowan smiled down at her. Anna had decided recently that she was too big a girl to nap, but long habits could be hard to break. She looked comfortable enough, so Rowan decided to leave her where she was rather than carry her up to bed.

Had Desmond gotten bored with the movie and gone upstairs to play? She went up and found his bedroom deserted. Ditto Anna’s and her own.

Her heart sank. He must have gone outside without her noticing. She trusted him not to leave the yard, but she didn’t trust him not to have gone knocking on her tenant’s door.

Please don’t let Niall have been home.

Desmond had become infatuated with the brooding police detective. She couldn’t figure it out. Niall wasn’t anything like Drew, who she knew Desmond missed dreadfully. She had hoped his grandfather would fill some of the void, but… No, she didn’t want to think about that right now. She had to find her son.

The moment she opened the back door, she saw him. Niall had come out on his porch and was listening, head bent and arms crossed, as Desmond expostulated on some enthusiasm or other. He was bouncing on his toes in his excitement.

With a sigh, Rowan started across the yard. Niall saw her coming. His face was mostly expressionless, but she thought there might be a plea in his eyes.

“Desmond,” she said, “what have I told you about bothering Detective MacLachlan? You cannot come over here every time you get bored.”

“I’m not bothering him, Mom. Am I, Niall? He says I can call him Niall,” he said as an aside to his mother, to forestall her reproof. “’Cuz we’re friends, huh?”

Like ghosts, several emotions passed through her tenant’s gray eyes, “I did tell him to call me by my first name. ‘Detective’ is for work.”

“He never had a dog.” Desmond sounded astonished at the concept. “Not even when he was my age. He said his mom didn’t like dogs. I’m real glad you like dogs, Mom. ’Cuz then we wouldn’t have Sam.”

Thumping drew their attention. Sam might not be the brightest bulb, but he did know his name. She hadn’t noticed him lying on the porch, although she should have; his head was all but resting on Niall’s foot.

His bare foot.

He seemed often to go barefoot, she’d noticed in the slightly less than a week they had lived here. He had quite sexy feet, an observation which had taken her by surprise. Rowan did her very best not to notice men as sexual beings. And feet weren’t supposed to be sexy anyway, were they? She didn’t even know why the word had crossed her mind. His feet were long and bony, with a few copper-colored hairs curling on his toes. Even so, at the sight of them close up, she felt a funny, warm, melting sensation low in her belly.

Of course, if she concentrated on his hands, long-fingered but strong, she had something of the same sensation. And he was very well built, she could see that; broad-shouldered, lean, powerful in a streamlined way. His hair was a beautiful color, a deep, rich auburn that in sunlight revealed itself to be composed of strands of a dozen colors. She wouldn’t have thought of him as a redhead at all, except that his jaw stubble was copper colored like the hairs on his forearms and toes. It made her wonder if he had much chest hair and whether it, too, was as bright....

Sternly, she slapped down any such speculation. She didn’t actually want to see his chest, or to touch it. Definitely not to touch it.

In her marriage, Rowan had learned to dread the sexual act. She had no reason to think it would be different with any other man. No, she wasn’t going there again, however much Desmond wanted a father. And she had to figure out how to keep him from bugging Niall, or she suspected she was going to lose her tenant. She hated the idea of having to find someone new. Niall might not be the friendliest man on earth, but he was safe. Plus, according to Gran he didn’t hold parties—in fact, almost never had a visitor at all—was neat, occasionally helpful and quiet. Although how Gran knew about the quiet part was a mystery. Niall could have howled at the moon without Gran hearing.

Keeping a renter in the cottage was a financial necessity for Rowan, and she hated to imagine the possibilities if Niall left.

“Are you going back to work soon?” she asked, trying to keep the hopeful note from her voice. His ironic look told her she hadn’t succeeded.

“Probably next week. You should know I don’t always work regular shifts. Don’t worry if you hear me coming and going at strange hours.” When she nodded, he asked, “Do you work?”

“I’m a para-ed at the elementary school. A teacher’s aide,” she translated. “It lets me work the same hours as Des is in school. Before, her grandparents took care of Anna, but this year she’s going to a preschool instead.”

“Grandma is mad about that,” Desmond said.

Rowan laid a hand on his head. “Disappointed, not mad.”

“She sounded mad.”

“Okay, upset.”

Niall, she couldn’t help noticing, was listening to the conversation closely. In their few interactions, she’d become aware of how much he took in while not, if he could help it, participating. She wondered what he thought about them.

Then she almost laughed. He thought they were a huge nuisance, that’s what he thought.

“Please,” she said, “let me know if any of us are bugging you. I mean it.”

Eyes widening, Desmond looked up at her, then at Niall.

“I’ll do that,” he said with what she thought was a sigh, although she sensed more than heard it.

“But I haven’t bugged him yet, have I, Detec— I mean, Niall? I’ve been real polite, haven’t I?”

Niall was apparently not immune to the plea in her son’s eyes.“You have been polite. Which—” his gaze fell to Sam, whose tail thumped “—I can’t say for your dog.”

Desmond cackled. “Dogs aren’t polite. ’Cuz they don’t know they’re supposed to be!”

“Is that so?”

“What has Sam done?” Rowan asked, apprehensive.

“Given half a chance, he shoots in the door and gallops through my place as if it’s a rodeo arena. I’ve fallen over him twice when I stepped out on the porch. He’s been gnawing on my Adirondack chair.” He nodded toward the bright blue chair, where the dog’s teeth marks whittled into the wood. “He stares in the window.”

The smudges along the lower panes of the front window were, evidently, nose prints. Rowan winced.

“He seems to be trying to dig a tunnel under the cottage. Take a look around the corner,” he suggested. “He has something else in common with convict escapees. The middle of the night is his favorite time to work on his project.” He paused. “The tunnel happens to be right underneath my bedroom window. Oh, and I ate out here one night and was stupid enough to set my sandwich down while I reached for my beer.”

He didn’t have to finish.

“I’m so sorry! I…” Her shoulders sagged. “Well, I don’t know what to do about Sam. Maybe I could tie him up some of the time. And…and keep him in at night. Only, if I do that, he…”

He lifted one eyebrow in a masterpiece of sardonic inquiry.

“He chews things up,” she admitted. “Mostly the kids’ toys. It’s hard to get them to put everything away.”

“And if he couldn’t find a toy, he’d start in on the furniture.” He leveled a significant glance at his porch chair.

“Possibly. Still.”

His sudden grin took her breath away. “Don’t worry about it. I can afford to replace the chair if he gets all the way through the leg. And it’s better to have him digging by the foundation than under the fence.”

“Yes, but sooner or later he’ll happen to dig beside the fence,” she muttered.

If anything, his grin widened. “Happen? Implying your dog is stupid, by any chance?”

“He’s not!” Desmond declared, indignant.

Rowan finally had to laugh. “I can’t blame it on overbreeding.”

“No, you definitely can’t do that. He must have a dozen breeds in him. His legs sure as—” his gaze briefly settled on her son “—heck don’t come from the same ancestor as his body does, and then there’s the head, and the ears, and…”

“Mommy, you said he was cute. Why are you laughing?”

“He is cute. In a, well, sort of ugly way.” She bent to hug her six-year-old. “Looks don’t matter anyway. It’s his heart that really counts.”

So why, she asked herself, was she so drawn to this man’s looks? She had no idea what his heart held. Except he had been kind to the kids, after that first meeting. He did avoid them, but when either of them cornered him, he was nice. And that said something about his character, his heart, didn’t it?

Probably, but it really didn’t matter. This was as friendly as they were going to get.

“Excuse us,” she said to Niall. “I don’t want Anna to wake from her nap and find us missing.” She firmly quelled Desmond’s protest and marched him back to the house, feeling Niall MacLachlan’s thoughtful gaze all the way.

“I HAVE TO REEXAMINE my whole life,” Rowan’s mother told her. “Did your father ever love me? I think back to conversations and get this jolt. Maybe he wasn’t thinking and feeling anything like I believed he was. That vacation we’d planned where he suddenly had to stay behind and work. Remember? We went to Ocean Shores? Was it a woman? Were there other women all along? He completely refuses to talk to me. ‘Think whatever you want,’ he says, as if that’s any answer!”

Rowan knew she was supposed to offer sympathy and understanding. Sitting on her back porch with the phone to her ear instead of mowing the lawn the way she’d intended, she was feeling low on sympathy and even lower on understanding. If only Mom didn’t call every day or two, reiterating the same miseries.

Mom and Dad’s separation had come as a huge shock to Rowan. Even worse was the way they both used her to bad-mouth the other one.

Dad had started to date from practically the moment Mom moved out, and that was the part that was infuriating her. Hurting her, too, probably, Rowan realized, but the whole subject had become an obsession.

Her best tactic would be to start dating, too. Dad might not want to be married to her anymore, but his pride would be stung by the sight of her seemingly enjoying herself with a succession of men. Rowan would have suggested it—her mother was an attractive woman who’d kept her figure at fifty-two—except Rowan could totally understand Mom never wanting anything to do with a man again. A desire she frequently proclaimed, and one Rowan shared.

“Mom, I really have to go,” she said.

As if she hadn’t spoken, her mother went on and on. Her father was making himself look ridiculous, dating women half his age—which Rowan thought was a slight exaggeration. Dad’s latest was maybe mid-thirties, bad enough. “Why don’t you talk to him?” Mom suggested. “He might listen to you.”

A car was pulling into the driveway, and Rowan’s heart sank when she recognized it. Glenn and Donna Staley, her parents-in-law, had come calling.

“I don’t care who Dad dates,” she told her mother, perhaps more brutally than she should have. “I don’t want to meet them, I don’t want to hear about them and, honestly, Mom, what difference does it make who he dates? You’re getting a divorce.”

“You blame me for feeling hurt by his foolishness?”

Rowan sighed. “No. Of course not, Mom. But I’d love to see you focus on yourself now. On finding what makes you happy.” As long as it was something besides calling her daughter to bitch about Dad. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have to go. Glenn and Donna are here.”

“Oh? You didn’t mention that you were expecting them.”

“That’s because I wasn’t,” she said, possibly a little tersely. Not that she necessarily would have told her mother they were coming, but she wasn’t thrilled to see them.

She ended the call to her mother as the couple reached the bottom of the porch steps.

“I don’t see the children,” Donna said, her disappointment obvious.

“Anna is napping, and Desmond is playing with a neighbor boy at his house.” Rowan had been pleased to find another boy exactly Desmond’s age who lived less than a block away, and delighted when the boy’s mother suggested they plan a few playdates.

Glenn frowned. “Do you know these people?”

“You left Anna alone in the house?” exclaimed Donna. “Dear, is that a good idea?”

Rowan dug deep for patience. Donna loved the kids, but worry also made her judgmental. “The back door is open. I’ll hear her the minute she wakes up. And since she can’t reach the lock on the front door, she can’t get out even if she’d do something like that, which she wouldn’t. And yes, I went with Des the first time to Zeke’s house and had coffee with his mother. She’s very nice, a stay-at-home mom.”

“You know we’d have happily taken him today if you wanted to have time on your own,” her mother-in-law said.

Did she sound disapproving? She often did, but Rowan wasn’t sure this time. She knew they weren’t happy. Of course they were sorry to miss seeing Desmond. They hadn’t wanted Rowan and their grandchildren to move out of their home, and even though she had needed to escape, Rowan understood how they felt. They’d grieved terribly after Drew’s death, and having Anna and Des close had been a huge consolation for them.

Rowan was proud of her smile. “I wasn’t looking for time on my own. Desmond needs friends his age. A new one is welcome.” She picked up the phone and stood. “Would you like a glass of lemonade? Why don’t we sit out here so we don’t wake Anna.”

“I thought you told me she’d given up her naps,” Donna said. “Are you sure you want her to sleep? Won’t she fight bedtime tonight?”

“Some days she doesn’t nap, but she’s still in transition. I figure if she falls asleep on her own, she needs the rest.” Rowan kept the smile fixed on her face. “Lemonade?”

“I suppose.” Glenn snorted. He was eyeing the broken run-off pipe for the roof gutters. “Your grandmother didn’t keep this place up, did she?”

Couldn’t he pretend to be a little excited for her? Rowan didn’t let herself sigh. No; Glenn took pride in being blunt. He’d made no secret of his opinion of her moving out on her own with two young children when she had the option of being taken care of.

They’d both become more critical since Drew died. Rowan had been reasonably sure they never quite approved of her. The first thing Donna had ever said to her was, “What kind of name is Rowan?”

Drew had insisted that Rowan was being too sensitive when she told him she didn’t think his parents liked her. “That’s just Mom and Dad,” he said, sounding resigned.

Rowan had clung to the fact that they did adore their grandchildren. And they had been generous in taking her and the kids in after Rowan realized she would have to sell the house to cover the debts Drew had left. They’d refused her offer to pay rent and rarely even let her buy groceries, which had allowed her to put some money away. How could she not be grateful, even if some days they’d made it hard? If only they’d respected her right to parent her own children the way she thought best, she wouldn’t have felt so desperate to get away from them. Even so, Rowan had been ashamed of the fervor with which she’d seized the chance to move out.

Perhaps, she thought now, if she’d involved Donna in the redecorating plans that would have appeased her.

But rebellion immediately sparked in her. Was it so bad to want to make the house totally hers and Anna’s and Desmond’s?

Was it so bad to wish she could she could restrict their contact with the kids to an occasional outing and too many packages under the tree on Christmas morning?

Rowan didn’t know whether to hope that Anna would sleep for a long time and they would give up and go away, or that she’d wake up and give them a grandchild fix. She had a gift for softening them both. Rowan worried more about Des, who they seemed determined to correct and mold, chide and stifle. More than Anna, he was slated as the replacement for their son. In the last year, he’d gone from being happy to see Grandma and Grandpa to shutting down and getting quiet in their presence. It infuriated her that her confident, bright, happy kid had to feel that way. Even if she’d loved living with Donna and Glenn, she’d have moved out at the first opportunity for Desmond’s sake.

“Why don’t I come in and help pour that lemonade?” Donna said. “And I can take a peek to see what you’ve done to the house. I’ll be quiet, but you know dear Anna wouldn’t want to miss our visit!”

How could she say no, even though her mother-in-law didn’t know how to keep her voice low? Even though it meant hearing again that Donna didn’t understand how Rowan could possibly want to live in a place that was so dark and dingy. Why, it wasn’t fair to the children, when they’d had such a nice room at Grandma and Grandpa’s.

If only Drew and she hadn’t both grown up in Stimson. If only Gran had left her a house somewhere else, far, far away.

Minneapolis, she thought wistfully. Florida. Anywhere at all but here.

CHAPTER THREE

NIALL GROANED AND PULLED his pillow over his head. It muffled the far-off wails, but didn’t entirely mute them.

What the hell was wrong with that little girl, and why wasn’t her mother fixing her? The kid had been squalling for half an hour or more, and it was three o’clock in the morning. She’d probably awakened the entire neighborhood. He knew exactly when she’d started, because her first screams had inserted themselves neatly into his recurring nightmare about the toddler with the dandelion puff of hair soaked with blood.

Okay, he hadn’t minded that she’d woken him up. If only she hadn’t kept crying and crying and crying.

He should get up and close the window. He could turn a fan on instead. Bonus: it would provide white noise to block those pitiful sobs.

With another groan, he cast aside the pillow, got up and pulled on the pair of jeans he’d discarded on a chair. Not bothering with a light, he chose a T-shirt by touch, then fumbled his way from the bedroom. Outside, he saw that several lights were on in the main house. Good to know. At least Mom wasn’t such a heavy sleeper she’d been ignoring the poor kid.

He rapped lightly on Rowan’s back door, bewildered by why he was doing so. What could he do?

Through the glass inset, he saw her approach, her expression wary until she snapped on the outside light and recognized him. Anna clung to her like a monkey, legs wrapped around her mother’s waist, arms probably choking her.

As Rowan opened the door, Anna’s sobs quieted to hiccuping breaths as she turned a wet, hectically flushed face to Niall.

“I’m so sorry.” Rowan looked distraught. “I should have made up my mind sooner what to do, before she woke you up.”

Anna’s face crumpled. “What’s wrong?” Niall said hastily.

“She has an ear infection. I’ll have to get Desmond up…”

“He’s sleeping?” he asked in disbelief.

She made a face. “Trying. We need to go to Emergency.”

“You’d better get dressed.” He was having to raise his voice to be heard above the renewed sobs.

“Yes.” She looked hopeful. “I don’t suppose you’d hold her?”

Oh, man. Why hadn’t he stayed in bed?

He’d been trying not to notice that she wore only a T-shirt that reached midthigh. It had a cartoon character on the front, faded by frequent washings. The thin cotton knit fabric clung to her body. Her daughter’s legs, clamped around her, had pulled the hem up almost high enough for him to see whether she wore panties beneath it or not. The speculation was enough for his body to harden despite the squalling kid.

“Uh…sure. If she’ll come to me.” He hesitated, cursing the common decency that had gotten him out of bed and over here in the first place. “Do you want me to stay with Desmond? Or…” He looked at the hysterical little girl. Despite deep reluctance, he said, “Maybe I should come with you. Drive, so you can concentrate on Anna.”

“Do you mean that?” Rowan’s eyes welled with tears.

Hell. Now she was crying, too.

“Of course I do. If it would help.” He found himself holding out his arms and hoping the little girl would go into them, even though normally he would consider that a fate worse than death. “Go on. Get dressed.”

With an especially piercing sob, Anna catapulted herself at Niall. She latched on tight, buried her face against his neck and cried. The rhythmic sobs reminded him unpleasantly of a siren he longed to turn off. Rowan gave him one fraught look, then fled.

Feeling way out of his depth, he bounced the girl a little. “Hey, hey. I know you hurt. We’ll get you all better before you know it. Come on, honey.” He began to walk. He’d heard new fathers talk about walking the baby endlessly. Maybe it would work here, too. “Crying doesn’t help. I think it’s making you feel worse.”

She wasn’t impressed by the argument. She continued to sob, he continued to walk and hold that small, hot body close. It seemed like forever but was probably less than five minutes before Rowan reappeared, dressed in a haphazard way, Desmond at her side. Niall had wondered where Sam the dog was; he hadn’t showed himself when Niall crossed the yard or entered the house. Now he peered cautiously around the door frame but didn’t come any closer.

Smarter than they’d given him credit for, maybe.

They took Rowan’s car since the kids’ safety seats were already in it. Niall drove while she sat in back between them. In his desperation, he exceeded a few speed limits and rocketed to the load/unload zone in front of the emergency entrance at the hospital.

“You take Anna,” he suggested. Please. Please take Anna. “Desmond and I’ll follow you once I park.”

“Thank you.” Rowan clambered over her daughter, unbuckled her and carried her into the maws of the hospital. Niall and Desmond sat without moving or speaking for a moment in the absence of sound. Niall didn’t know about the kid’s eardrums, but his were ringing.

“She gets lots of ear infections,” the boy finally said, matter-of-factly.

“Does she.” Niall gave his head a shake and put the car back into Drive. Maybe he and Desmond could walk really slowly.

Would the doctor only give her antibiotics, or would they be able to do something to take her pain away? A shot of morphine, maybe?

Desmond was able to unbuckle his own seat belt. However, when Niall circled the car to him, he said, “Can you tie my shoes? I can’t see.”

“Sure.” Did he know how to tie them? Niall didn’t remember how old kids usually were when they learned. Sure enough, when he knelt on the pavement he found the laces straggling. He could feel a bony ankle, too; no socks.

Tying this little boy’s shoelaces, Niall had a feeling of unreality. What was he doing here? How had this happened? Why hadn’t he stayed in bed?

I don’t get involved, he thought desperately, but here he was. No. He wasn’t involved, for God’s sake, he was only giving an hour or two to help out a young mother. And it didn’t hurt to stay on his landlady’s good side, right?

A small hand tucked itself confidingly into his. “You’ll be able to find Mom, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, rising to his feet. “We’ll find Mom.” His smile came out of nowhere. “Hey, all we have to do is follow the sound of Anna crying. We could track her down in the deepest, darkest forest. Never mind a hospital. That’s easy.”

“Yeah.” Desmond suddenly sounded cheerful. “She is kind of loud, isn’t she?”

“Oh, yeah.”

They walked across the parking lot, lit by sodium lamps. They seemed to be alone out here. The faint crunch of their footsteps was the only sound.

“I’m glad you came.”

Niall looked down at the face turned up to his. Bizarrely enough, he realized that, in a way, he was glad, too. Rowan’s kids could be pains in the butt, no question, but they were okay. Even sweet, in their own way. And Rowan had needed someone tonight. He’d seen it in her eyes.

This isn’t personal, he told himself. I’m a cop. Cops protect and serve. That’s all I’m doing.

All the same, he hoped like hell no other cops happened to be lurking in the emergency room to see him. His reputation as the ultimate loner would be shot.

The glass doors slid open. Ahead he could see Rowan, turning away from the check-in counter, Anna clutching her and crying, but more quietly now. Sadly. Rowan saw him, and the weariness and distress on her face eased. Niall had the strangest sensation under his breastbone. He couldn’t begin to identify it, and didn’t try very hard, only led Desmond over to his mother.

“She’s heavy. Do you want me to take her?” he offered.

He had the thought that this could be atonement for his part in what had happened to that other little girl, in the bank parking lot.

ROWAN WANTED TO CRY AGAIN, which was ridiculous. She hadn’t cried in years, not even when Drew had died. For weeks her eyes had been so dry they burned, and she’d wondered if something was wrong with her. But now, Niall’s kindness was doing something to her. Weakening her.

“I’m okay.” There were only five other people in the waiting room, thank goodness. A man who was leaning over and clutching his stomach, the woman with him watching anxiously, her hand on his back. A scrawny, twitchy, tattooed girl with a bruised, puffy face. And a woman who might be in her forties who was cradling a ten- or twelve-year-old boy close, her tenderness and worry palpable. Rowan went to the closest chairs and sank gratefully down, holding Anna in her lap. Desmond climbed onto the chair next to her, and Niall sat on his other side.

“Did they say how long the wait would be?”

She shook her head. “It shouldn’t be long, though. Since there are so few people here.”

She’d seen him assess every single person in the room, from the receptionist to the ten-year-old, the minute he walked through the sliding doors. Now his gaze lingered on the tattooed teenager who looked as if she’d been beaten up.

After a minute he said, “Desmond says Anna gets these a lot.”

“Yes. The antibiotics always work, but she has a miserable day or so first. I keep hoping she’ll outgrow this.” She rubbed her cheek against her daughter’s hair. “So far, no cigar.”

“There must be a reason.”

How like a man. There was a problem; there ought to be a fix. And he wanted to know—now—why no one had found it.

Obscurely, she found his attitude to be comforting. Maybe only because someone else cared.

Not fair, she reminded herself. Donna and Glenn cared. Except she could tell they thought she was somehow at fault. Because she’d passed on some frailty that ran in her family—certainly not in theirs—or because she let the kids eat junk food too often, or should be cleaning wax out of Anna’s ears, or in some unknowable way wasn’t a good enough mother. The implication was always there.

Niall’s quiet, reassuring presence, the way he was looking at Anna with worry, his implacable tone—as if the doctors were the ones to blame, not her—it was so different, she found herself feeling steadier and, at the same time, less self-reliant. Weaker, she thought again.

“I’m not sure they even look. I don’t know. Desmond’s never had a single ear infection.”

A nurse appeared through the swinging doors and called a name. The man clutching his stomach and the woman with him stood and followed her into the back. Ten minutes passed. Desmond grew bored. Niall found him a Ranger Rick magazine with pictures of wild animals that entertained him for a while. Anna’s cries dwindled into an occasional miserable whimper. She grew heavier as she relaxed. Rowan shifted to get more comfortable.

Niall suddenly stood, came to the chair on the other side of her. “I’ll take her for a while. You need a break.”

He meant it. Rowan didn’t know why she was surprised. Drew had been a good father. He’d have insisted on taking a turn, too. But that was different. Nonetheless, she gratefully shifted Anna to his arms and watched as he settled her against him as if he’d done it a thousand times. After a minute, Rowan turned her attention to Desmond. She found a crayon in her purse and they did a simple word match puzzle in the magazine.

The teenage girl went back. Five or ten minutes later, so did the mother and boy. None of them reappeared. An ambulance raced into the bay, lights flashing, briefly exciting Desmond. Hospital personnel hurried out and helped unload a man onto a rolling gurney, hooking a bag of fluids above him and adjusting an oxygen mask. Everyone moved really fast. After a while, the two EMTs came back out and drove away. Desmond fell asleep against Rowan’s shoulder. She peeked at Anna and saw that she was still awake, but barely, her eyes mere slits between puffy, red lids.

“Anna Staley.”

Rowan started.

“You take Anna and I’ll carry Desmond,” said Niall, standing.

He seemed to assume he’d come back with her. The independent woman she usually was thought she ought to protest, but, oh, this was so nice to be able to lean, if only a little. Why not enjoy it while it lasted? So, without arguing, she accepted the transfer and they all traipsed after the nurse as if they were the family they appeared to be.

The nurse led them to a curtained cubicle, where she took Anna’s temperature and pulse, made notes and went away. The wait after that was, thankfully, brief. Niall appeared completely patient. Beyond their small space, Rowan could hear voices; footsteps passed now and again. Then the curtain rattled on its rings and a woman her mother’s age in a white coat appeared. She wore a stethoscope around her neck.

“I’m Dr. Ellis,” she said briskly. “What seems to be the problem?”

Rowan told her, and with a lighted speculum Dr. Ellis looked into Anna’s ears, shaking her head as she did so. “You poor thing. Flaming red. Hmm.” She persuaded Anna to stick out her tongue and was able to look down her throat. She hmmed a bit more and said, “Her tonsils don’t look awful, but they’re a little ragged. You say she’s had frequent infections?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to give you an antibiotic tonight, but also a referral to an ear, nose and throat specialist. She needs to have her adenoids checked, and it’s possible those tonsils should come out. Worth a good look, anyway.”

“Yes. Please.”

She gave some suggestions for immediate relief, all of which Rowan had heard before and already tried, sent the prescription for the antibiotic winging off to the hospital pharmacy from the computer and breezed out.

“Let’s take the kids to the car,” Niall suggested. “Then I can go back in and pick up the prescription.”

She’d already given her insurance information, so they didn’t have to stop on the way out. Rowan had to hurry to keep up with Niall’s long stride. Desmond’s weight seemed to be nothing to him. She cringed to think what it would have been like without Niall. As much as she’d come to resent her parents-in-law, at least she hadn’t had to drag Des along the last few times she’d brought Anna to Emergency in the middle of the night.

“I’ll pay you back,” she said to Niall, when he closed the door on Desmond’s side and looked at her over the roof of the car.

“Looks like Anna’s asleep at last. Close your eyes, too, if you can.”

This time she sat in front. Once she’d locked the doors, she did put the seat back a bit. She couldn’t doze, but she came close. Time had a dreamlike quality. She didn’t know how long it was before he came back, handed her a bag and then started the car. They didn’t talk during the short drive.

When they got home, Niall said quietly, “I’ll carry him up to bed,” and she could only nod. Anna stirred when she picked her up, but Desmond stayed limp and unresponsive. Rowan had forgotten to lock the back door, which earned her a glance from Niall, but all he did was carry her son upstairs and turn into his bedroom. She gave Anna a dose of the strawberry-flavored antibiotic and another dose of painkiller, tucked her in, and looked up to see Niall waiting in the bedroom doorway.

“She okay?” he murmured when Rowan joined him in the hall.

“Mostly worn-out, I think. But maybe she’ll sleep for a few hours.”

He looked down at her with those gray eyes that didn’t reveal anything, however kind he’d been tonight. “You need to do the same.”

“Yes.” She smiled. “You, too.”

“Yeah.” His voice had dropped a notch, sounded husky. “I will.”

“Thank you,” Rowan whispered.

His hand lifted and he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His knuckles seemed to linger against her cheek, but that might have been her imagination. He backed a step away. “I’ll lock up,” he said, low and gentle, then turned and went downstairs.

Rowan stood where she was until the lights downstairs went out and she heard the click of the back door. She was so tired she was swaying on her feet. It was hard to make herself turn out the hall light, too, and go into her bedroom. She stripped off her clothes and bothered with the T-shirt she wore as a nightgown only because she would probably have to get up again with Anna.

Sleep pulled her down. Just before she fell into it, she thought how lucky her grandmother had been to find Niall. How lucky she was.

Yes, but he didn’t want to be with us tonight.

What a strange thought. He’d been wonderful. And yet…something told her that the whole while, a part of him had strained to escape.

He was really a stranger, so it shouldn’t hurt to know that he’d helped because he felt he had to, not because of any tender feelings for her or the kids. Shouldn’t hurt? Didn’t. Of course it didn’t hurt, she told herself, and fell into the thick velvet darkness of sleep.

ROWAN STOOD AT THE KITCHEN sink, her hands in soapy water, and watched her son through the window. She hadn’t noticed in time to stop him from knocking on Niall’s door. She’d first spotted him standing there staring at it as if it would surely open any minute. Sam was at his side, Desmond’s hand gripping the dog’s ruff. For once, Sam’s tail wasn’t wagging. She saw the minute Des gave up; his shoulders slumped, his head bowed and he turned away, disconsolate.

Rage rose in her, almost choking her. How could Niall do this to a little boy? He’d systematically avoided them since that night. Three days now, and he had managed to come and go when none of them were outside. He didn’t answer knocks on his door, even though Rowan knew he was home. He was letting them know, bluntly and cruelly, that he had no intention of getting sucked into their lives.

If it was only her, she wouldn’t have minded. Anna, she thought, had been getting attached, but she was less aware of his rejection. Desmond, though, had latched on to him with all of a little boy’s need, and now Niall was knowingly hurting him.

What she wished she could do was find an excuse to evict the jerk. Maybe she could find a genuinely nice man to live in her small rental. No, not a man; a woman. She wouldn’t set Des up for this again. She ached, watching him walk so slowly back across the lawn, scuffing his feet, never once raising his head. She hoped Niall was watching, too. She hoped he felt guilty.

Rowan snorted. Who was she kidding? If he was capable of guilt, he’d be letting Desmond down gently instead of cutting him off, whack, sorry, don’t want to see you, kid.

Drying her hands, she went to the back door and opened it. “Hey,” she said, “I was thinking about baking cookies. You want to help?”

“Not really.” He sat on the bottom step. “Sam and me want to stay out here. That’s okay, isn’t it, Mom?”

No, she wanted to say. No, it isn’t, not if you’re going to stare at Niall’s house and wait for something that isn’t going to happen. But how could she?

“Maybe Zeke would like to come over,” she suggested.

He shook his head. “He has swimming lessons today.”

Now she felt a pang of guilt. She’d meant to sign Desmond up, too, but what with moving and starting work on the house, it had slipped her mind. “I’ll bet I could get you in for the last session,” she said. “I’ll find out when it starts.”

“Can Anna take lessons, too?”

“The doctors don’t recommend she get water in her ears. You know how I put plugs in her ears even in the bathtub.”

“Zeke says he’s doing real good. He swam all the way across the pool.” Desmond sounded impressed.

“You already know how to put your face in and float and kick. You’ll be swimming across the pool, too, before you know it.”

“But I’ll be in Beginners, won’t I? Zeke says he’s gonna be in Advanced Beginners next time.”

Lousy mother alert. Her shoulders sagged, too. Maybe Donna and Glenn were right. Maybe she wasn’t a good mother.

“I can swim,” she said. “What if we go to public swim sessions and I teach you? Maybe you could catch up before the next session of lessons starts.”

His face brightened even as she was thinking, Wait! What do I do with Anna? She should have thought before she opened her mouth. But Anna’s grandparents would be thrilled to have her. It could be a sort of…consolation for them. A chance to spend time with one of their grandkids, while Rowan had a good excuse for not leaving Desmond with them. Yes. That might work.

“Really?”

She smiled at her son. “Really.”

“That would be cool,” he decided. “I bet I can learn real fast.”

“I bet you can, too.”

“Do you think Niall knows how to swim?”

She aimed one brief laser-sharp glare at the cottage, wishing it could pass through walls and impale her tenant. “Who knows?” she said lightly. “He’s just a guy who was renting from Gran, Des. I know he was nice to you, but he must be really busy. We were lucky he could help us out the other night, but let’s not count on him, okay?”

The animation left her son’s face. After a moment he bowed his head again. “I thought he liked me.”

She hesitated. “I’m sure he does, but…”

“It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled. “I’ve got Super Sam. And I like living here better than Grandma and Grandpa’s.”

“Good.” Rowan hugged him. “You sure you don’t want to help with those cookies?”

For a moment she thought he was going to refuse again, but finally he shrugged and climbed to his feet. “I guess I might as well.”

He trudged into the house after her, and right at that moment she hated Niall MacLachlan with all the passion in her heart.

HE’D MISSED HIS LITTLE hobby.

The man moved soundlessly across the lawn, loving the cloak of darkness. It had been over a year since he’d done this. He had to worry about being caught, even though he never had been. Still, he would indulge himself for a while, for a few weeks or months, then quit again before the police got involved. He could find what he needed on his computer. There was plenty available online to satisfy his craving.

Lately, though, he’d found himself noticing who lived where. His excitement had sharpened, even before he’d made a conscious decision to start again.

Really he should wait until fall, when darkness came earlier. He’d noticed, though, that parents were letting their children stay up much later these days, perhaps because it was summer. Nine or ten o’clock, and there were still games of tag going on in the street. What were those parents thinking? Anything could happen to their children, out in the dark.

Of course, he wouldn’t hurt them. He only allowed himself to look. Looking was enough.

This rambler didn’t even have a fence, which meant no dog, either. Dogs were a nuisance, although fortunately their families often took them in at night. He moved quietly along the side of the house, staying out of the light cast through the kitchen window. The next window was dark; dining room, he thought. The one after that was dark, too; master bedroom, he hoped.

The two smaller windows were bathrooms. He heard water running, muffled voices. It was the next window that interested him. A light was on in the room; somebody had already pulled the curtains, which were blue cotton with spaceships rocketing between bright golden stars. The hand that had pulled them was careless, though. There was a crack on one side, enough for him to see into a little boy’s bedroom.

To get close, he had to step into the flower bed, which he didn’t like. He’d have to remember to scuff the dirt before he left, so no obvious footprints remained. The thorny cane of a rosebush snagged his pants, and he stifled a curse. But the boy was alone in the room, taking his pajamas from beneath his pillow. He was old enough to get undressed and dressed himself.

This close to the window, the man heard the mother call, “Chad? Did you brush your teeth?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“I’ll be there in a minute to tuck you in.”

The boy took off his shirt and dropped it in an open hamper. His back to the man, he kicked off his sneakers, pulled off his socks and then his jeans and briefs. Filled with intense pleasure and the sharp arrow of anticipation—turn around, turn around—the man unzipped his pants. So quietly. He loved knowing he was invisible out here.

He reached down to touch himself.

CHAPTER FOUR

NIALL HAD HEARD THE VEHICLE pull into the driveway—he was always aware of things like that, even when it likely had nothing to do with him. SUV or pickup, he had decided, from the deep sound of the engine. He was mildly surprised when, a minute later, someone knocked on his door.

He was less surprised to find his brother on his doorstep. They occasionally dropped by each other’s homes. That had been the sum total of their relationship outside of work, until a little over a year ago when Duncan met Jane, who insisted on inviting Niall to dinner and suchlike. He’d been Duncan’s best man at the wedding, too, an odd experience.

Am I his best friend? he had wondered. If I were getting married, who would I ask to stand beside me?

The answer had disturbed him. Duncan, of course. But sometime in the past year he’d settled into the realization that he loved his big brother, who probably loved him, too. The fact that they weren’t very good at showing how they felt didn’t mean the emotion wasn’t there.

“Hey,” he said now. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” Duncan followed him in then looked around with the exact same, faintly appalled expression he had every time he came there. It said, How the hell can you live in a shoebox?

The main room of the cottage had a kitchenette, table with two chairs, sofa, one bookcase and a stand with a TV and DVD player. Not much floor space left over. It was as if the place had been designed for child-size furniture, although that wasn’t the case. Enid had told Niall that her husband had decided they needed a rental, and had built the cottage with that in mind. He hadn’t wanted to give up too much yard, though; apparently he’d had a big vegetable garden. Niall didn’t mind the close quarters, but obviously Duncan did. His visit would be short. It wouldn’t take long before he’d start looking uneasy, possibly claustrophobic, and would depart as abruptly as he’d arrived.

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