For His Daughter

Before Rafe could say anything, Nick jumped in. “That’s beside the point. As an outsider, Rafe has no preconceived notions about what would serve us best. What he does have is plenty of PR experience. All those years in Vegas and L.A. He’ll know what will catch people’s interest. How to massage the media to get the best coverage.”

Someone laughed. “Way I hear it, you were always good at massages, Rafe.”

“This is a serious discussion,” Howard Hackett complained, and Rafe tried to remember if the man had a daughter. Truthfully, he couldn’t recall many of the local girls he’d romanced and left behind.

“I know how to handle the press,” Rafe acknowledged. “If you want me to do this, I will. Otherwise, I’m perfectly happy going about my own business.”

“I nominate Rafe D’Angelo for publicity chairman,” Nick said quickly. “All those in favor say aye.”

There was a surprisingly supportive vote of confidence in favor of the motion. There were no opposing votes, though Rafe suspected his father’s silence cost him dearly. He could tell from the older man’s posture in his chair that he wasn’t liking this turn of events. Not liking it at all.

A short time later, the meeting broke up. Rafe was trapped in a round of congratulatory handshakes and slaps on the back, so that he couldn’t immediately join his father and brother on the sidewalk in front of the Silver Saddle. Calloway, Hackett and Swinburne, who he’d already begun to think of as the Unholy Trio, cornered him with promises to be in touch soon.

When he finally emerged from the bar, he found his father and Nick waiting near the lodge’s van in the weak sunshine. From the matching set of their hardened jaws, Rafe could tell there had been harsh words exchanged. He could make a safe bet on the topic.

He decided to ignore the ice forming between them. Before Rafe and his father were through with one another, he suspected there were going to be plenty more worthwhile arguments between them. He didn’t need to run interference for Nick, who had always been able to take care of himself.

He tucked his hands into his jacket pockets, wishing he’d remembered to bring gloves. Easter might be right around the corner, but there was still snow on the mountaintops and the air was chilly.

Yanking his collar up, he said, “I’d forgotten how cold it can be up here, even in spring.”

His father’s expression was a mixture of annoyance and something more petulant. “Easy to forget,” he snapped, “when you don’t come back to a place for twelve years.” He banged on the side of the van near the sliding door and looked at Nick. “We gonna stand around talking all day so I can freeze to death, or can we go home now?”

Nick just grinned and shook his head, and in no time he had helped Sam to the backseat and stowed the wheelchair in the cargo hold. As Rafe closed the back doors, he nudged Nick’s arm to grab his attention.

“Why did you do it?” he asked in a low voice so that Sam couldn’t hear. “You know you just made the old man mad.”

“He’ll get over it.”

“I’m serious. One son on his hit list is more than enough.”

Nick shrugged. “The way I figure it, you’ll never get off his list if you don’t throw yourself into what matters to this family. Pop’s right about one thing, Rafe. Your home has to be more than just an address. Whatever you have planned for a future here, it will work better if you make your family a part of it.”

“I’m not used to involving other people in my business. My private life stays private.”

“Then you made a mistake coming back. Trust me, there’s very little in this family that isn’t a group effort. Whether you like it or not.”

There was a muffled rap on one of the side windows. Pop, trying to hurry them along.

They wove up the winding mountain road in silence. The sky was cloudless, a bright, clear, uncomplicated blue that the postcard companies must love. Every so often, Sam sighed heavily from the backseat, but neither Rafe nor Nick remarked on it.

When the quiet reached an uncomfortable level, Rafe looked over at his brother. “So how’s the local rag of a paper? Is it still only fit for lining the bottom of a birdcage? I suppose if I’m going to drum up interest in this festival thing, I should start there.”

“We have a new person in from Denver working the area,” Nick replied. He shrugged. “We do all right. Nothing much earth-shattering to write about around here.”

Rafe couldn’t help a derisive laugh. “Oh, how well I remember that. A night on the town around here takes about ten minutes.”

“You would know,” his father commented from the back-seat.

There was another long, ugly moment of silence. Rafe stopped the impulse to turn in his seat to look at Sam. Don’t say anything. Don’t feed the temptation to strike back. You open that dialogue, and there’s no telling where it will go.

He took a couple of calming breaths. “So this reporter… what’s he like?”

Nick tossed him a grin. “She. Danielle Bridgeton. And from what I’ve heard around town, she’s not all that excited about being stuck up here. But I’m sure you can win her over. It’s part of the reason I suggested you. The old Rafe D’Angelo charm might come in handy.”

Sam muttered something under his breath.

Since he’d been gone, Rafe had become quite an expert in a lot of things. He knew how to break a horse, how to spot a cheat at the blackjack table, how to survive thirty days on a week’s worth of rations. He had learned patience and the art of compromise. So how could his father get to him?

He can’t. Not if you don’t let him.

Ignoring the annoyed, grumbling sound from the back of the van, Rafe said to Nick, “You realize that these people will never agree on anything, don’t you? This festival is going to be a mess no matter how many committees get formed.”

Nick frowned. “I hope you’re wrong about that. It needs to be a success.”

“Why do you care? If I remember correctly, you were never much of a townie, either.”

“What’s good for Broken Yoke is good for the lodge. Every year we lose a few businesses. A few more young people move down to Denver where they can find work doing what they want instead of what their fathers want. It’s a trend I’d like to see stopped, and if a festival can help that, then I’m in favor of it.”

Rafe rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Nick. That’s a tall order. There’s no focus for this thing, no focal point.”

Nick gave him a quick look. “That’s why I threw your name up for publicity chair. If anyone can find a way to make something mediocre sound exciting, it’s you.”

Rafe knew Nick was referring to all the times he’d talked his brother into some harebrained scheme as kids, the girls Rafe had convinced to sneak out of their bedrooms for a clandestine meeting at Lightning Lake. Or the goose bump– producing trips he’d got them to make to the boarded-up Three Bs Social Club, which everyone said was haunted but was still one of the most perfect make-out places in the world.

“It will take more than that,” Rafe said, pursing his lips. “Journalists don’t like to be manipulated. The town wants this thing to make money, but this Bridgeton woman won’t be interested in a festival that’s motivated by greed. She’ll want some charitable or civic angle. They don’t like to feel like puppets for some commercial venture.”

Nick nodded thoughtfully. “I see your point. But the festival isn’t just to line the pockets of every businessman in town. This all started last year because we want to add on to the library, create a kid’s playground at the city park and clean up Lightning River Overlook.”

Worthwhile causes, every one of them. But what kind of spin could Rafe put on it for this newspaper woman to catch her interest? The whole thing was so disorganized at this point. How much money was the city willing to spend? And even if they could get people to come, how could they handle the influx?

He shook his head and laughed. “This is ridiculous. I’m not a PR person. I never have been.”

“What about when you worked for that Crews guy? I got the impression you did some of that for him.”

“I did a lot of things for Wendall Crews for several of his development projects. But I wouldn’t say it was PR work.”

He wasn’t sure what he would have called the years he had worked for Wendall. They’d had an interesting relationship. More mentor and student than anything else.

Shortly after leaving Las Vegas, Rafe had latched on to a job as a river raft guide on the Colorado. Wendall, an overweight and out-of-shape real-estate developer from Los Angeles, had signed up for one of the trips. It was clear none of the other tourists wanted the businessman for their raft partner. He was friendly enough, but clearly, they thought he couldn’t hold up his end of the overnight trip down the river.

They were right; he couldn’t. On the second day, on the next-to-the-last rapid, his raft had gone careening down one of the chutes, and Wendall had gone over the side and into the churning river. Caught in a whirlpool, the guy had sunk like a boat anchor. Rafe had gone in after him, hauling the panicked guy onto some flat rocks, even pumping water out of him before it could do him any serious harm.

Later, everyone had said Rafe had gone beyond the call of duty to save Wendall. At the time, he would have said all he was trying to do was keep from losing a customer on his watch.

But Wendall had been convinced that he would have died without Rafe coming to the rescue. He was so grateful that the next day he’d made Rafe a business offer to come work for him. One no one in their right mind would have refused, especially not an opportunist like Rafe. He’d quit his job and moved to L.A., where he’d worked by Wendall’s side for four years, until last fall when the big guy’s heart had finally done him in.

“You’ll think of something,” Nick reassured him. “You always had the power of persuasion.”

“What am I going to say?” Rafe spread his hands out as though framing a sign. “Come to Broken Yoke’s second annual festival…unless the high-school gym floor is being varnished.”

His father slid forward on his seat so he could catch Rafe’s eye. He looked thunderous. “This is exactly why I didn’t want you for the job. Take it seriously, or resign. We need someone who can appreciate Broken Yoke for what it is, not for how many jokes can be made about it.”

“I’m not going to resign,” Rafe said quietly. His father was getting on that buried nerve that was not quite dead yet. “In fact, I’m going to see this reporter at the paper as soon as possible.”

He could almost see Sam’s back stiffen for battle. “I’m sure you’ll have the woman dancing to your tune in no time. Just make sure it’s legal.”

The insinuation burrowed and found a home under Rafe’s patience. His father’s capacity for being strong- willed and unreasonable really rose to sublime heights at times. Rafe turned a little in his seat, and their anger met head-on. “Do we need to talk, Pop?”

If this was a quarrel at last, then let’s have it.

Nick took his hand off the steering wheel and chopped the air, cutting through the unpleasantness. “I think the two of you have talked enough for now.”

Sam settled back in his seat. “There’s nothing more that needs to be said anyway.”

His mild, colorless voice diluted some of Rafe’s irritation, and the knowledge that they had just made the turn-off to Lightning River Lodge did the rest. Sooner or later he supposed they’d have it out, just like the old days, but not today. Not with the rest of the family waiting for them, and the sky so blue that anything seemed possible. Even peace.

The lodge was busy and noisy. There were several noon checkouts keeping Brandon O’Dell, the front desk manager, busy. He barely managed a wave in their direction before he was pulled back to attend to another guest.

The small dining room was still doing a brisk business, too. As the three D’Angelo men wove their way around the tables toward the kitchen, Aunt Renata looked up from where she was trying to make sense of an Easter decoration she had strung out along one of the banquet tables. Fake green grass lay everywhere. Rafe knew that they would have a full house on Easter for Sunday brunch.

The kitchen had always been the heart of the lodge. Even twelve years ago, Rafe had spent more time here than in any other room in the family’s private quarters, which lay just beyond the double doors. Around the big wooden island table rested so many memories. This was where his father had chaired family council meetings, and his mother had taught all four of her children—Nick, Matt, Rafe and Addy—with gentle persuasion and stern looks.

Every surface in the room was covered with gaily wrapped pieces of candy and more eggs than Rafe had seen in years—all of them in various stages of coloration and preparation. He knew that each one of the lodge’s guests would find a small basket waiting outside their room door on Easter morning. As Nick and Rafe swung through the double doors, with Sam bringing up the rear in his wheelchair, Rose D’Angelo looked up.

“About time you were back,” she told them. “Come eat lunch.”

His mother presided over a quaint collection of copper pots, garlands of herbs and spices, and all the latest gadgets with the command of a general. In Rose D’Angelo’s life, the preparation of food had the same importance as the eating of it, and if you entered her kitchen, you often got drafted into helping out.

She dished up bowls of steaming minestrone from the stove and began setting them on the wooden table while all around her waiters and waitresses bustled about to make sure every wish of the diners in the dining room was heeded.

“I’m not hungry,” Sam said shortly. “I’ll get something later.”

He wheeled through the kitchen, then settled near the back door where earlier that morning he’d been working on replacing a broken handle.

Rose D’Angelo gave him a narrowed glance, then turned a questioning look toward Rafe. “I take it things didn’t go well?”

“You could say that,” Nick answered for them both.

Rafe went over to the prep sink to wash his hands. He thought of all the years he’d lost with this family. Sometimes he sat in this very room and thought about the love he had given up twelve years before. Sometimes he wanted to rush back through those years and change everything.

Was he being foolish to think he could ever recapture any of it? Sam was stubborn. Unforgiving. Why the hell did Rafe think he could ever make things right with his father?

Why, in God’s name, am I bothering?

The double doors from the family quarters burst wide, and five-year-old Frannie marched through them, picked up something from the top of the big wooden table, then made her way straight for him. Her solemn little features were fixed on him like a laser.

She didn’t plow into his legs like some kids might. She approached him calmly, quietly, and when she reached him, she held out her hand. On one multicolored, dyed palm lay the brightest blue Easter egg Rafe had ever seen.

She looked up at him, her hair falling down her back like strands of black pearls. The light from the windows near the back door caught her full face. It was beautiful on her, clean and sweet, strong and loving.

“Aunt Addy said I should make Easter eggs for everyone,” she said simply. “I made this one for you.”

He lifted the egg, prepared to offer compliments. Hell, what else could you do when a kid gifted you with something like that?

He rolled it in his hand, and etched clumsily across the egg, one word had been stenciled with a wax crayon. His heart turned over and a fluttering sensation spread out from his abdomen.

DADDY.

He raised his head, making the instant connection— eye to eye with the little girl. And the moment crystallized, as some moments do. In that half blink of time, he remembered.

This is why I came back here. She’s the reason.

This child who barely knew him.

Frannie, his daughter.

CHAPTER THREE

HIS MOTHER WOULD HAVE SWORN the odd feeling in Rafe’s gut when he held the egg Frannie had decorated was love. Rose would have claimed the feeling was one any father would have toward their child.

But the problem was he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t plain old, ordinary fear.

Truthfully, he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of conversations he’d had with children in his lifetime. He still couldn’t believe he was a father. The father of a five-year-old. A little girl, at that.

But Frannie was his now, and had been since December, the most unexpected, unsettling Christmas present he had ever received.

He looked down at her upturned face. She had the feminine version of D’Angelo features that had been part of the family’s legacy for generations—the firmly cut mouth, dark hair and bold eyes, those very long lashes that drew your attention and held it. She was his daughter, all right. The infinitesimal splinters of chance that went into making up a person’s DNA had left no question of that fact.

He knelt down to her level, examining the blue egg as though it were a Russian Fabergé. He was aware of everyone’s eyes on him. Only his father seemed disinterested in watching the interaction between Rafe and his daughter.

“This is very pretty,” he told her.

Frannie seemed unimpressed by the compliment. “Can I eat it?”

“No.”

“Why not?” she asked, her dark brows drawing together. Rafe had already discovered her stubborn streak.

“Because these aren’t for eating. Not yet.”

“They’re just eggs. I like eggs. I got to eat lots of them with Mommy.”

They were in dangerous territory all of a sudden. This was a situation they’d yet to discuss much. Mommy. He dreaded when that name came up. Someday they’d have to have a deeper discussion of why Mommy was no longer in the picture—something more than the awkward explanation Frannie had been given so far. But not today.

He rose, walked over to the table and placed the blue egg alongside the others on the drying racks. “Not this time,” he said.

Frannie had never seemed to be afraid of him, but neither had she come to terms with the idea that he was calling the shots in her life now. She came right over, gazing up with stormy eyes and a hard jaw that reminded Rafe eerily of his father.

“Why not?” she demanded to know again.

“Because I…” He broke off, uncertain where to go from there. Because I told you so? Hell if he’d fall back on that tired parental cliché.

As though sensing he needed help, his mother came to the rescue. She approached the little girl and turned her around to face her. “Francesca, remember the job I gave you and Aunt Addy this morning? I want you two to make as many pretty eggs for Easter baskets as you can. These are not for eating.”

“But I like hard eggs.”

“Then I’ll give you some to eat for lunch. Not that one. That one goes in the family basket, like a present. That’s your job today—to help me get ready for Easter.” She smiled down at the child, chucking her under the chin. “All right?”

Frannie considered this explanation for a long moment. Then her brow cleared and she nodded. “I guess so.”

“Good. Our guests will be very happy on Easter morning.”

Frannie turned back to Rafe. She waggled her hand over the eggs on the table. “I made all these.”

He pretended to give them serious consideration. Pretended, at least, until he noticed that all the eggs Frannie had colored were two-toned with spots. Red on yellow. Purple on pink. A sickly looking green on orange. Not a solid-colored egg among them. Except his.

Deliberate or subconscious, he wondered? A not- so-subtle attempt to show him that he didn’t fit into the world she liked? Or maybe just an accident?

Deciding to ignore the implications, he cocked his head at the eggs, then gave her an enthusiastic look. “I see you like spots.”

Did her jaw harden again? Just a little? “Spots are my favorite,” she said clearly. “Don’t you like spots?”

His sister Addy jumped in to save him this time. She touched Frannie’s sleeve and drew her attention toward Sam seated near the back door, still working on the handle. “You aren’t the only one. Your grandfather thinks polka dots should be a color in the crayon box.”

All their lives, the D’Angelo kids had known that their father loved polka dots. Every tie at Christmas had been dotted, every pair of socks. One year there had been a weeklong silence in the house when Rose had vetoed Sam’s intent to have all the curtains in the lodge redone in a dotted Swiss pattern.

Rafe didn’t know whether his father had been paying attention to the conversation or not, but Sam suddenly looked over at them and pointed with his screwdriver. “There’s nothing wrong with spots,” he said in a no-nonsense tone. “They’re bold and make life interesting. And why stick with one color when you can have two?”

Frannie nodded as though this logic made perfect sense, though she didn’t make eye contact with her grandfather. From the moment they’d met, she’d seemed shy of him, and unexpectedly, considering how much Sam loved children, he hadn’t been overly friendly to the girl, either. But it was somehow annoying to Rafe that even his father seemed able to make a small connection with Frannie, when he had not.

“Francesca,” his mother spoke up. “Will you go tell Mr. O’Dell at the front desk that we need more baskets from the storage shed?”

The child ran out the double doors to do as she’d been asked.

Rafe gave his mother a grateful look. “Thanks. I was starting to flounder there, wasn’t I?”

His mother smiled up at him, touching the back of her hand to his cheek. “You’ll get the hang of it. You just haven’t had enough practice.”

“I haven’t had any practice.”

“You were always quick to learn. I have faith that you can handle whatever Francesca throws your way.”

He shook his head, unable to share his mother’s confidence.

Of all the things he had envisioned for his life, a future built around kids had never been one of them. They were inconvenient. Noisy. Sticky. They liked to yank a person out of sleep and leave your nerves twitching until noon. Most of all, they needed you, and he didn’t like that. He’d liked the image of himself as unencumbered, and nothing messed up a man’s plans more than the responsibility of kids and family.

Last Christmas in Los Angeles when Ellen Stanton had called, letting him know she was in town and asking him to come by her hotel, he’d never suspected that the promise of a few hours of reliving old times would turn into a declaration of fatherhood.

He hadn’t seen Ellen for years, not since they’d been river raft guides together on the Colorado. He remembered her as a woman who had liked sex fast, hard and slightly earthy. Their one evening together had not been a summer night filled with soft breezes and the glow of a full moon overhead. That night had ignited some chemistry that was all sex and excitement, but very little else. They’d coupled wildly, then said goodbye to one another at the end of the week without a single regret.

Going to Ellen’s hotel suite, they’d barely passed the routine civilities of renewed acquaintance before she had trotted Frannie out of one of the bedrooms, pushed her in Rafe’s direction and stated flatly, “Frannie, this is your daddy.”

She’d waited for the words to sink in. They’d sunk.

He could still remember the ripple of shock that had run through his body. For a moment or two, he’d fought it, ready with denials. But he’d canceled that impulse when he’d looked down at the child. She had features alive with intelligence and the potential for sweetness. Her precise little mouth had been sullen and tight, but with little tremors in the muscles around it. He’d known instantly that she was scared to death.