“You’re running scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Oh, yes, you are.” Anita stepped forward, pointing a finger at Luke’s chest. “You are terrified of me. I know you, Luke, better than you think. You retreat into work and you pretend the world doesn’t exist. I’m attracted to you. I’m not going to pretend I’m not, but I’m not foolish enough to have a relationship with you.”

“I think I liked it better when you were complimenting my body.”

She smiled, then averted her gaze from his. “So, as long as we’re clear on this now. No romantic relationship. Just friends.”

“Yeah, just friends.”

“Good.” She nodded, almost convincing herself that this was exactly what she’d wanted.

Dear Reader,

Are you headed to the beach this summer? Don’t forget to take along your sunblock—and this month’s four new heartwarming love stories from Silhouette Romance!

Make Myrna Mackenzie’s The Black Knight’s Bride (SR #1722) the first book in your tote bag. This is the third story in THE BRIDES OF RED ROSE, a miniseries in which classic legends are retold in the voices of today’s heroes and heroines. For a single mom fleeing her ex-husband, Red Rose seems like the perfect town—no men! But then she meets a brooding ex-soldier with a heart of gold.…

In Because of Baby (SR #1723), a pixie becomes so enamored with a single dad and his adorable tot that she just might be willing to sacrifice her days of fun and frivolity for a human life of purpose…and love! Visit a world of magic and enchantment in the latest SOULMATES by Donna Clayton.

Even with the help of family and friends, this widower with a twelve-year-old daughter finds it difficult to think about the future—until a woman from his past moves in down the street. Rest and relaxation wouldn’t be complete without the laughter and love in The Daddy’s Promise (SR #1724) by Shirley Jump.

And while away the last of your long summer day with Make Me a Match (SR #1725) by Alice Sharpe. A feisty florist, once burned by love, is supposed to be finding a match for her mother and grandmother…not falling for the town’s temporary vet! Matchmaking has never been so much fun.

What could be better than greeting summer with beach reading? Enjoy!

Mavis C. Allen

Associate Senior Editor

The Daddy’s Promise
Shirley Jump

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To my dad, whose love and integrity

taught me that good men do exist. And to my husband,

the best daddy our kids could ever have.

Books by Shirley Jump

Silhouette Romance

The Virgin’s Proposal #1641

The Bachelor’s Dare #1700

The Daddy’s Promise #1724

SHIRLEY JUMP

has been a writer ever since she learned to read. She sold her first article at the age of eleven and from there, became a reporter and finally a freelance writer. However, she always maintained the dream of writing fiction, too. Since then, she has made a full-time career out of writing, dividing her time between articles, non-fiction books and romance. With a husband, two children and a houseful of pets, inspiration abounds in her life, giving her good fodder for writing and a daily workout for her sense of humor.

Dear Reader,

I’m thrilled to be returning to the town of Mercy, Indiana, again and revisiting old friends and neighbors! The Misses, and their dogs, are making a return appearance (back by popular request, after so many readers wrote me and told me how much they loved them in my first two Mercy books), and so is Katie from The Virgin’s Proposal.

This book was also fun for another reason—I was able to relive all the comical moments from my two pregnancies. Having children was the best gift of my life, but it’s also provided me with lots of inspiration for humor, much of which is reflected in The Daddy’s Promise.

Return to Mercy with me for a few laughs and a few tears.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

Chapter One

The mouse won—by default.

If the doorbell hadn’t rung, Anita Ricardo was sure she would have won the staring contest with the scrawny rodent. Then she could have chalked up at least one point for herself on this hot, calamity-prone day.

Well, maybe a half point.

The three-note off-key song played again. Not exactly the lyrical melody of the bell back at her apartment in L.A.—the apartment she’d given up to come to Mercy, Indiana, and start a new life.

Unfortunately, right now a new life meant living in a rickety rental house with a rodent for a roommate.

Geez, put that way, her life sounded like the plot of a bad sitcom. Anita got to her feet. She reached for the front door, twisted the knob and pulled. The heavy door refused to budge. For the second time that day, the late-August humidity had swollen it tight to the frame. The first time, she’d been able to use a little elbow grease—little being the operative word for a five-foot-three woman who barely topped a hundred pounds—to wrestle it open.

The doorbell pealed a third time. Anita put both hands on the knob and yanked.

“Just a minute,” she yelled. Maybe it was the plumber, here to do something about the sputtering rust that passed for water. Or the electrician the landlord had promised to send over to fix the flickering lights. Or even, please Lord, the telephone company, here to connect her with the outside world.

Anita tugged harder. The door moved a fraction of an inch. She put her weight into it and then—

The knob jerked out of the locking mechanism and right into her hands. Anita stumbled back several steps. She blinked at the brass sphere in her hands.

“Hello?” called a quavering female voice.

“Hang on a minute. I have a bit of a problem here.” She tried to slip the knob back into the hole. It refused to connect. Anita bent down, peered through the opening and saw—

A canned ham.

“Um, hello?” Anita said to the pink oval.

The ham moved away, replaced by an eye and part of a wrinkled cheek. “Why hello, dear. Welcome to Mercy.” The woman straightened and the ham swung into view again. Fully Cooked, Real Maple Flavor, No Refrigeration Needed. “I’m with the Mercy Welcoming Committee.”

“Do you have a screwdriver with you? Maybe a sledgehammer?”

“Did you say sledgehammer, dear?”

“Never mind. Let me open the window.” The back door, Anita knew from an unsuccessful door-pull match this morning, was likely just as stuck. She straightened, then lifted the sash on the small window, fumbling with the finicky metal screen.

After two good curses and a solid tug, she managed to fling it up. She dipped her head to her knees and crawled out the window and onto the wide wooden porch.

The woman didn’t blink at Anita’s unconventional entrance. She looked close to eighty years old and wore a bright floral sleeveless dress shaped more like a bell than an hourglass. “Here you go, new neighbor.” She thrust the basket into Anita’s arms. “I’m Alice Marchand.”

Anita staggered a little under the weight of the wicker container. A hand-drawn smiley face dangled from the handle, with the words “Welcome to Our Town” forming the lips. The basket was piled to the brim with a motley collection of foods and household things: a red flashlight emblazoned with Joe’s Hardware: Screws You Can Use; two bottles of Pete’s Hotter Than Hades Salsa; some calico-topped jars of home-canned food; a Tupperware container of chocolate-chip cookies; and the pièce de résistance, a hand fan from the local funeral home, decorated with Ten Tips for Planning Early for the Afterlife.

The basket took the prize for hokiest gift of the year. And yet it touched some kind of sentimental nerve because, for a brief second, Anita wanted to cry.

Crazy. She was hot, sweaty and tired. Nothing more. A glass of lemonade and a good meal and she’d be back to her regular, optimistic self. “Thank you, Mrs. Marchand.”

“Oh, I’m not a missus. Never did find a man I could tolerate.” She leaned closer and winked. “Besides, I’m holding out for true love.”

Anita chuckled. “The basket is beautiful. Thanks again.”

“It’s nothing. Just a bit of Indiana hospitality.” Miss Marchand bent forward, pointing inside it. “There’s some of my neighbor Colleen’s homemade orange marmalade in there, and a loaf of bread baked special by the ladies of the Presbyterian Church. Oh, and a coupon for Flo’s Cut and Go. Our little beauty shop hasn’t been the same since Claire left—that’s who rented this house before you. The new girl, Dorene, is trying, bless her heart, but she’s just not Claire.” Miss Marchand pressed a hand to her gray pouf. “Dorene is mighty stingy with the hairspray. Keep an eye on her with the Aqua Net.”

“I’ll, ah, keep that in mind.” She should invite the woman in for a glass of lemonade, but doubted a senior citizen would be up to a climb through the window. “Would you like something to drink? I can go in and get—”

“Looks like you have your hands full already. And, in a few more months, you’ll have them twice as full,” she gestured toward Anita’s stomach.

Anita glanced down at her legging shorts and oversize T-shirt. She’d just hit the seventh month of her pregnancy and had outgrown most of her regular clothes but hadn’t yet bought many maternity clothes. Stretchy outfits and sundresses were comfortable and the easiest on her tight budget. “How did you know I’m pregnant?”

“Old lady’s intuition. Not to mention, the little clues sitting in the porch swing.” She smiled, gesturing toward the pregnancy guide Anita had left out there earlier that morning. Beside it sat two pairs of half-crocheted baby booties, one in pink and one in blue.

“Oh, those! I—”

Miss Marchand waved a hand in dismissal. “No need to explain. It’s nice to see someone young making something by hand,” she said. “You have a nice day. Oh, and if you need any work done or help with anything, call John Dole. His number’s in there. Now that he’s retired, he works part-time as a handyman. Nicest man you’d ever want to meet, and with the smartest sons you’ve ever seen. I should know. They all passed my biology class with flying colors. Why, Claire even married one of them.” Miss Marchand smiled. “She always was a bright girl.”

“Did you say John Dole?” Anita’s breath lodged in her throat. “Does he have a son named Luke?”

Miss Marchand nodded. “Along with Mark and Nate and Katie. Quite the family, the Doles. If you ever get to meet any of them, you’ll love them to pieces.”

“I already have.” In that instant, Anita saw Luke’s face again, half in shadow in his darkened office. That kiss—no, not a kiss, more an eruption of hot, molten desire. One kiss, nothing more, but it had been enough to scare Luke away and to tip Anita’s perfect, planned-out world off-kilter. “Is he…is he living in town now?”

Miss Marchand smiled and her silvery blue eyes perked up. “Why, yes he is, dear. He was working at the steel mill, but now he’s got a business at home. He lives just a couple blocks down, too. It’s the little white house on Cherry Street. You should stop over and say hello. If you’re old friends and all.” The sentence came out with a lilt at the end, more question than declaration.

“Actually, he’s the reason I’m here.”

“Oh?” Miss Marchand gave Anita’s swollen belly an obvious glance.

“Oh, no, this isn’t his baby.” She laughed. “When I knew him in California, he raved so much about Mercy, he made it sound like paradise. At least, compared to L.A. That’s why we’re here.” She pressed a hand to her abdomen.

“Does he know you’re here?”

“No, I…well, I haven’t had a chance to tell him.” Seeing Luke wasn’t part of her plan. Men in general weren’t part of her plan. All Anita cared about was settling in a nice place, where her baby could grow up happy and healthy, with neighbors who wrapped around their lives like a well-worn quilt. Mercy, with its quaint streets and quiet neighborhoods, seemed perfect so far.

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about that.” The old woman winked. “News spreads faster than chicken pox here. I’m sure Luke will be dropping in to see you soon.”

Anita doubted that, but left those words unsaid. “This basket looks great. I really appreciate the welcome.”

Miss Marchand wasn’t dissuaded by a change of topic. “If you ever want to talk to Luke, just call John. Luke’s there, staying with his folks for a bit. That young man’s been through an awful time.” She tugged on a leather strap and a little dachshund Anita hadn’t noticed before scrambled to her feet, wagging her tail, clearly anxious to be on her way again. When Miss Marchand reached the sidewalk, the dachshund hopped into a little red wagon, obviously the basket’s conveyance. “The number’s right behind the ham!”

Miss Marchand toodled a wave, then picked up the wagon’s handle and set off down the sidewalk. Anita stayed on the porch, hugging the basket to her chest.

In L.A., no one would have done something so nice. Her neighbors had never introduced themselves to her or taken the time to give her the phone number of a handyman. It proved to her once again that she had made the right choice for her and her baby.

The hokier the better, that was her motto from here on out. Hokey was good for raising a family.

A plaintive squeak-squeak sounded behind her. The mouse sat on the windowsill, nose twitching, watching her. He blinked several times, raised his teeny snout in the air, sniffing.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Anita told him. “I’m not sharing.”

The mouse lowered his head, stretched his body toward her. When he did, he looked skinny and deprived. Lonely.

Anita glanced inside the basket and spotted a package of wheat crackers. “Oh, all right. But just one.”

She withdrew a cracker from the package and tossed it on the flaking paint of the porch floor. The mouse scrambled down and dove for the cracker. Anita thrust the basket through the window, clambered in after it and shut the screen.

There. She might not have any hot water. Or a front door she could open. Or reliable electricity. But she had managed to outsmart one wily mouse.

Surely, that was a sign her life was on the upswing. If not, she had a flashlight, a hand fan and plenty of cookies to tide her over.

Luke Dole had been pacing the carpet in his daughter’s bedroom for the past twenty minutes, mashing an even path in the beige plush. He ran through a mental list of places where Emily could be for the hundredth time and got nowhere. Nothing.

She’d taken off right after school. When the principal called five minutes later to announce Emily’s latest act of defiance and impending suspension—only one week into the new school year—Luke knew why his daughter had disappeared.

Now it was ten-thirty, an hour and a half past Emily’s curfew, and he had no idea where she could be. He’d already gone out looking once and come up empty. He’d returned home, hoping to find her here, but her bed was still made, her sandals missing from their place by the door. Images of serial killers, rave parties and fiery car wrecks ran through his mind like a horror slide show.

“Reminds me of when I used to wait up for you and your brother.”

His father’s voice made Luke jump. He spun around and saw John Dole standing in the doorway, wrapped in a navy terry-cloth robe, holding a glass of water.

“Dad! I didn’t hear you get up.”

“Well, I heard you. Sounds like a herd of elephants in here.” John crossed and took a seat on the edge of Emily’s bed. The worn Barbie comforter seemed too girlie for tall, broad John. “I’m sure she’s fine, Luke. Just testing some boundaries.”

“Yeah, well those boundaries are an hour and a half late. Where could she be?” He began pacing again. “I should call the police.”

“Mercy isn’t L.A., Luke. Don’t you remember what it was like to be twelve, going on thirty? You and Mark were a handful then. Always taking off, building forts, chasing frogs, cornering poor Miss Tanner’s dog and painting it purple.”

Luke laughed. “I think Miss Tanner’s still mad at us for that one.”

“That dog of hers was a pain in the neck anyway. Barked at gnats, for God’s sake.” John sipped, then placed the glass on Emily’s white wicker nightstand. When she’d been seven, Emily had loved this bedroom set, right down to the Barbie-and-Ken pillowcase. But now, it seemed to be one more thing for them to argue about. Luke hated that she was outgrowing the memories he and Mary had worked so hard to build.

His father rose, put a hand on his shoulder. “Em’s going through a tough time. Losing her mother just when she needed her most.”

“I lost Mary, too, Dad. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be two parents at once.” He’d carried this load alone for almost two years, and he’d dropped it more than once. “I keep screwing it up.”

“You and she have a few things to work out, that’s all. It’ll be all right.”

Luke had heard those words so many times. From the psychiatrist he’d hired for Emily after Mary died, from the teachers and principals who had thrown up their hands after unsuccessfully trying to reverse Emily’s failing grades and continued rule breaking, from the neighbors who thought they were doing the right thing by bringing over hot dishes and well-worn platitudes. He’d moved back home, hoping his parents could help him break through the brick wall she’d put up.

Maybe he wasn’t the right man to raise Emily. Maybe another man would have—

That thought damn near broke his heart in two. He hung his head. Thick emotion clogged his throat, strangling his vocal cords. “When, Dad? When is it ever going to be right again?”

John’s eyes shimmered. “I wish I had that answer for you.” He gripped Luke tight for a moment. “Go find Emily. Talk to her. I’ve never seen two people who needed each other more.”

How true that was. Each of them was all the other had left. And yet, they kept pushing each other away as if they were fighting over the last lifeboat on a sinking ship.

Luke gave his father a quick, one-armed hug, then headed for the door.

Once again, he drove up and down the streets of Mercy. It was a small town, barely more than six thousand in population, so there wasn’t much area to cover. For half an hour, he saw nothing but the occasional loose dog. And then, on the corner of Lincoln and Lewis, he saw a familiar figure with fuchsia hair and a bright orange T-shirt climbing in the window of a house.

Claire Richards used to live there, until she’d married Luke’s twin brother, Mark, and they’d moved to California. Renters were few and far between in Mercy, and the home had fallen into disrepair and become a teen party hangout over the last twelve months. His mother had mentioned something about a new person moving in, but Luke had barely caught the comment and didn’t remember if his mother had said there was a tenant already in residence or soon to be.

The house was dark, looked empty. Emily would see it as the perfect hiding place.

Luke parked his Chevy in front of the neighbor’s house. He snuck down the drive, around to the back of Claire’s, then hoisted himself into the window Emily had disappeared through.

Anita bolted upright in bed. The sound she’d heard coming from the next bedroom—the one she’d started setting up as an office—hadn’t come from a mouse. Unless the mouse had invited a few million friends over for a canned-ham-and-marmalade party.

Her heart hammered in her chest. Images of her certain demise flashed through her mind: the coroner shaking his head at the woefully unprepared corpse, the headline decrying the loss of the newest Mercy resident and all that wasted food from the Welcoming Committee.

Anita took a deep breath, clearing her head.

A weapon. She needed a weapon. In the half light of the moon through the curtainless windows she didn’t see anything remotely lethal, unless she counted one pair of red spike heels.

Then, in the corner, a box labeled “Kitchen,” left there when she got too tired to move anything else. Eureka. She prayed for a rolling pin, maybe even that cast-iron waffle maker she’d never used but felt compelled to tote across the country, in case she ever had a hankering for homemade Belgians.

Anita crept out of bed, snuck over to the box and pried open the cardboard lid. From the other room, a scuffling sound. She held her breath, praying Jack the Ripper wasn’t about to lunge through the door and show off his superior surgical skills.

She pulled out the first thing her hand lighted on. A Teflon skillet. Twelve inches of coated aluminum, with a wooden handle. Not a heck of a lot more lethal than the stilettos, but easier to wield and requiring far less accuracy.

Anita got to her feet, steadying her stomach with her hand when a wave of nausea threatened to undo her. She crept out of her room, down the short hall and toward the next doorway. Like a SWAT-team leader, she plastered herself to the wall, peeking around the corner, pan at the ready above her head.

At first, she didn’t see much but then, a flash at the window.

A man was on the window ledge, heaving himself into the room. A large man. Son of Sam size. Anita slithered around the doorway, pressed herself to the wall and crept barefoot around the perimeter of the room.

He didn’t notice her. He was too busy huffing and puffing his way through a B and E. He paused, his hands propped on the sill. Anita reached him and before she could think about what she was about to do, she raised the pan, then swung it down as hard as she could. Her muscles—or maybe her conscience—flickered at the last second, turning her crushing blow into nothing more than a cornflake-crunching glance.

The man let out an oomph, lifted his hands to ward off future attacks and promptly fell forward, landing face first with a thud on the wood floor.

Anita raised the pan, ready to strike again. She hesitated.

There was a man on her floor. A large man. If she knocked him out, how would she ever get him out the door? That is, if she could even open the door. She could call the police, but her phone still wasn’t hooked up and for all she knew, Mercy, being such a small town, didn’t have a full-time police department, just some local yokels who probably took the law into their own hands after work. Maybe she should get the stilettos. Threaten him with the pointy end and make him crawl out.

But first, she’d be smart. Force him to fix that door. And maybe move the kitchen table to the other side of the room. Every once in a while, her choice to be manless presented a few logistical problems.

Anita hoisted the pan higher. If worse came to worse, she could tie him up with the useless telephone line and leave him for the mouse.

“Hey! That’s my dad!” A female voice shrieked behind her. “Don’t hit him!” Before Anita could react, the pan was yanked out of her hand by a girl not much bigger than her.

The man on the floor groaned. He put a hand to his head and rolled over. “Who are you and what are you doing in Claire’s—” He leaned forward, blinking. “Anita?”

She knew that voice. And that face. It couldn’t be him. Absolutely, positively could not be him. She could almost hear Rod Serling humming “Do-do, do-do…” in her ear.

The man on her floor wasn’t a bungled burglar. He was…

“Luke?”

“Dad! Don’t talk to her. She’s crazy. Not to mention, she tried to kill you.” The girl dropped the pan on the floor and crossed to her father. Anita remembered meeting his daughter—Emily was her name—a couple of times when the girl had still worn pigtails. Now she hovered over Luke, not touching him, feigning indifference, but it was clear she was concerned. “Are you, like, okay?”

“I’m fine.” Luke got to his feet, brushing off his pants as he did. He turned to Anita, his eyes and mouth wide with shock. “If that’s how you say hello, I’d hate to see you say goodbye.”

Chapter Two

Luke didn’t bother to contain his surprise at seeing Anita in Mercy. It had been at least fifteen months since he’d seen her, and now she was living three blocks from him? What puzzle piece had he missed? “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“Why?”

“Hey, you’re the one breaking and entering.” Anita bent to retrieve the skillet. When she did, her oversize nightshirt rode up, exposing long, creamy legs. The moonlight streaming through the window illuminated her face with a soft glow. “Since I’m holding the Teflon, I’ll ask the questions. Why are you climbing through my office window?”

“I was looking for Emily, who didn’t come home when she was supposed to.” He shot his pink-haired daughter the parental evil eye. She shrugged and got busy drawing a circle on the floor with her toe. “I saw her climbing into your house and went in after her.”

“I was just looking for a place to crash,” Emily muttered.

“You were avoiding punishment,” Luke said. “For that…” He gestured, wordless, at her neondyed head.

Emily let out a chuff of disgust, crossed her arms over her chest. “I hate my life.”

Anger boiled up inside of Luke. “Emily Anne, get in the car right now. You’re grounded for the next three hundred years.”

Emily parked her fists on her hips. “You can’t make me.”

Luke half expected steam to come pouring out of his ears. “Emily.”

Anita stepped forward and laid the pan on a box. She lifted her hand, as if she was about to touch Luke, then withdrew at the last second. A ripple of disappointment ran through him.

Maybe that bump on the head had knocked a couple of screws loose.

“Let me get an ice pack for your head,” she said. “And lemonade for everyone. Then we can all cool down and start over.”

Just as she had so many times before when she’d been the marketing consultant for his and Mark’s software company, Anita defused the situation with a few quiet words. They’d brought her in for the launch of the company six years ago, but she’d stayed even when they couldn’t pay her anymore. She’d stayed because she had been a friend.

And for a very brief moment, much more than that for Luke. But then…

He pushed those thoughts away. He wasn’t going to go there, not now, not later. His priority, now more than ever, was Emily. Women, and this woman in particular, didn’t figure into that equation.

Exactly what he’d told Anita, and himself, nearly a year and a half ago. Looking at her now, he needed a refresher course.

Why was she living in Mercy? Why here out of all the thousands of towns in the country? Was she here to rekindle things with him? Or worse, to confront him about the callous way he’d broken off their relationship? He decided not to ask—just in case the answer was one his daughter shouldn’t hear.

His head throbbed where the pan had connected with his skull. “You pack a decent wallop.” He probed the spot gingerly.

Anita turned, smiled. “I went easy on you, too.” Maybe it was just the intimacy of the hallway or the soft glow of the moon on her features, but her smile caused a deep twisting in his gut that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Anita was here. In his life again. A thousand different emotions, like a shower of fireworks, erupted in his gut.

He should leave now, before he started traveling down a path he knew he shouldn’t take. But his feet kept moving forward, propelling him with a will of their own.

The house was small and they entered the dark kitchen a second later. He reached past Anita and pulled the chain attached to the ceiling-fan light.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Anita said, reaching for his hand at the same time. Their palms collided. Luke jerked back when an almost electric jolt coursed through him, harder and faster than the Teflon blow. The light burst on, making everyone blink.

“It seems to be working fine.” The circular light fixture hanging from the center of the ceiling glowed brightly…maybe a bit too brightly. Then there was a sizzle and a hiss, followed by a loud pop. A shower of sparks and shattered bulb glass rained over them and the small wooden kitchen table.

The room was thrust into darkness again.

“Way to go, Dad,” Emily said.

Anita sighed and brushed the glass off her shoulders and hair. “What is it with men? Why do they always think they know everything?”

“Because we do.” Luke chuckled. “Or at least, we like to pretend we do. Makes up for our natural insecurity.”

Anita’s light laughter echoed in the quiet. “This coming from the same guy who always insisted he knew where he was going, even when he was heading for Oregon instead of San Francisco?”

In the dark, her teasing seemed more intimate, almost like a joke between longtime lovers. He remembered that car ride with her. Two glorious hours, spent lost and wandering up and down the California coastline. Well, he’d really only been lost half the time. He’d never admitted that to her, though.

Luke cleared his throat. “Well. Do you have a candle or something?”

“Right here.” Anita flared a match and lit a candle that sat on the table. She blew the match out, then crossed the kitchen to get a small broom and dustpan.

In the amber candlelight, she looked even more beautiful, glowing almost, than the last time he’d seen her. He’d always thought the name Anita fit her—lyrical and tough, all at the same time.

Her hair was shorter now. It was still the same shade of deep rich brown, reflecting the light in shimmers of cranberry. Eighteen months ago, her hair had reached past her shoulders, cascading in waves that curled at the ends. Now the tendrils teased around her neck, emphasizing her delicate features like a custom frame.

Here she was, standing in his brother’s wife’s old house.

Why? Had she sought him out? Come to finish what had been left undone between them? And why did that thought both terrify and unnerve him?

For a moment, he pictured finishing what they’d started back in California. But one glance at his daughter, sitting sullenly in a kitchen chair, drumming her fingers on the table, reminded him where his priorities lay.

“Lemonade? Or iced tea?” Anita gestured toward a cooler.

Her chocolate eyes met his, and the spark of electricity jolted through him again. “Uh…we need to get home. Thanks, but…we need to get home.”

She smiled. “You said that already.”

He couldn’t have acted more like a blubbering idiot if he’d tried. For once, he longed to have just a pinch of the charm his twin had. A few suave words that could get him out of Anita’s house with his ego intact.

Instead, he mumbled something about it being late, grabbed a protesting Emily by the hand and left by the back door before he humiliated himself further.

“How does house arrest until you’re eighteen sound?” Luke asked Emily. His anger at her disappearance, and his pan bashing, returned full force.

It was also far easier to focus on lecturing Emily than to think about why Anita was here. And why her presence had upset his life’s applecart with the force of a small tidal wave.

“We could get you one of those electronic monitors on your ankle so you can’t stray more than fifty yards from the front porch. Because that’s as far as you’re going for the next week. If I ever let you out of your room again.”

No answer. Emily crossed her arms in front of her chest and stared out the window of the car, practicing for Statue of the Year.

His daughter hadn’t said more than three words to him in so long, he’d begun to wonder if she was working toward a career in mime.

“I talked to the principal at school today.” No response. “The school year started a week ago and already you’re on out-of-school suspension until Friday for breaking the dress-code rules. Again. You knew this would happen. What were you thinking when you put that stuff in your hair?”

He glanced to his right and saw Emily’s profile, so like her mother’s. Underneath the neon pink, she had Mary’s hair color and eyes, the same classic blond and blue-eyed beauty. Despite all that had gone wrong—and all the mistakes he had made and could not undo—Luke loved Emily. He had never doubted his feelings for her. Some days, that was all that kept him at it, a miner trying like hell to break down the wall that stood between him and his daughter.

He reached out a hand to touch her, then withdrew, knowing she’d only pull further away.

They reached the driveway of his parents’ house. Before he could bring the sedan to a halt, Emily threw open her door and dashed into the house. Luke sighed, put the car in Park and followed after her, feeling one hundred, not thirty.

When had his daughter become this angry preteen who had about as much fondness for her father as she did for an extra helping of turnips?

What happened to the kid who used to climb all over him, begging Daddy to play one more game before bed? The same little girl who’d ended each night with butterfly kisses against his cheek and bear-tight hugs that made her squeak?

Where was his life? Not the one he used to have, but the one he’d dreamed of having when Emily had been born?

Luke shook his head, forcing himself to stop dwelling on the past. There was a future for him, and for Emily, he knew it.

He just didn’t know where it was…or how to reach it.

On Monday morning, Anita was sitting at her kitchen table, spreading bitter orange marmalade on the bread from the Welcoming Committee basket.

Mental note—never eat anything cooked by Colleen Tanner again. Either the woman had the cooking skills of a chimpanzee or she’d underdone the sugar measurement. The marmalade tasted like orange peel mixed with cement dust.

Anita pinched her nose and choked down another bite. Besides the canned ham, she didn’t have much else to eat, at least not until her paycheck came in the mail. She’d used up most of her savings to move here, pay for first, last and security and keep her gas tank filled for the cross-country drive with the rented U-Haul carrying all her furniture attached to the back.

The Honda had needed a lot of coaxing to make it the last couple hundred miles. Anita had begged the little car not to give up the ghost until she reached Mercy, throwing in a promise of a thorough tune-up and lube job as soon as she got paid again.

Any day now, though, the freelance writing job she’d started right before she left would kick in, with payment for all the articles she’d written prior to moving. It was a hefty check, enough to pay her bills, fill the refrigerator—should the electricity ever start working—and give her money to expand her maternity wardrobe.

And, she couldn’t forget the booties.

Anita’s friend Gena had raved about the first two pairs Anita had made and she’d insisted on trying them in her L.A. boutique. When the crocheted baby socks sold out in a single day, Gena had ordered another fifty pairs, as fast as Anita’s crochet hook could create them. Between moving and unpacking, she hadn’t had much time. Next week, she’d be able to complete a few pairs and get them out to Gena. Who would have thought a hobby taught to her by her mother could have the potential for becoming a nice side business?

Despite the fact that she had no running water and a rodent in residence, Anita remained optimistic. The glass was half full, and the baby was on his or her way. Plenty to be excited about, even more to look forward to.

The weather report called for a cooling rain. The landlord had promised to send over an electrician first thing. The phone company had assured her there’d be a working line connected to the house sometime between the hours of eight and five. By the end of today, she’d have almost everything she needed.

Anita pressed a hand to her belly. Things are looking up, kiddo.

Ever since she’d walked into the Do-It-Yourself-Babies Sperm Bank in L.A., she’d known she was on the right course. All her life, Anita had wanted only one thing—a family. She wasn’t going to wait around for true love, if it even existed, to fall into her life and give her the family she wanted. Especially not once Nicholas made it clear that he had no interest in children, despite the diamond he had placed on her finger. Their brief, tempestuous relationship had begun at the end of last summer and been over before winter’s gray days left. She’d given the ring back and decided this was one thing she could do on her own. No man necessary.

After the test came back positive, she’d given her notice at the marketing company and at her apartment building, then set out to build a new life for herself and her child. When she was little, her mother had spoken fondly of some small town in Indiana where she’d grown up. In the years since her mother had died she’d forgotten the name, but the flavor of the memory had stayed.

Her mother’s stories made the town sound like the perfect place to settle down when she had a child of her own. Mercy, Indiana, was the closest thing Anita knew of to the town her mother had described. After so many years of feeling disconnected, Anita hoped Mercy would provide the answer she was seeking.

The mail truck pulled up in front of her house and slid a pile of letters into the battered aluminum box. Anita crossed into the family room, reached for the front door handle, realized it was still missing in action, and opted for the window.

From the thickness of the stack in the box, Anita figured her mail from L.A. had finally managed to catch up with her. She flipped through the envelopes as she climbed back through the window and into the house.

She tossed the bills to one side of the kitchen table, along with a bunch of junk mail. At the bottom of the pile was a thin envelope she almost missed. Anita tore into it.

The letter from her editor at the magazine started out friendly enough, then disintegrated into bad news. “Budget cuts…We regret to inform you…Wonderful writing…no further need for your services…Wish you luck elsewhere.”

The job she’d counted on was gone. Eliminated with a single sheet of paper and a thirty-seven cent stamp.

Attached to the letter was a check, for only forty percent of what she’d expected. The kill fee, which editors offered when they couldn’t use work they’d contracted to buy, wasn’t nearly enough.

When she’d landed that job, she’d thought it had been wonderful luck. Here was her chance to build a work-from-home career that would let her be with the baby and still earn a living. She’d figured between the booties business and the savings from living in Mercy instead of L.A., she’d come out ahead.

But now it looked as if she’d fallen behind.

Outside, thunder rumbled. A minute later, the skies let loose. Rain pounded down, slapping against the pavement with determination. In the right-hand corner of the kitchen, a steady drip-drip-drip began. Anita grabbed a three-quart pot and put it under the leak.

The water started dripping a symphony throughout the house. By the time she was done, she’d used five pots, two mixing bowls and all six of her glasses to catch the interior rainstorm.

Add one roofer to the list.

The mouse skittered across the floor, nose twitching, tail flicking. He glanced up at the kitchen table, then scurried around the chairs. He paused, curved his head up to look at her and sniffed twice.

“You’re pitiful when you beg.” Anita laid a crust of bread, topped with some of the horrendous marmalade, on the floor. The mouse tiptoed up to it, took one sniff and dived headfirst into his little mouse hole in the kitchen wall.

She laughed. “I don’t blame you. Give me a few days and we’ll be dining on steak. Well, at least chicken. I’ll come up with something.”

Things, after all, could be worse. She had a canned ham. Crackers. And marmalade she could use as putty. Not exactly the best choices from the four food groups, but she wouldn’t starve.

Anita grabbed her laptop and headed for her Honda. She’d get to the library, hook up to the Internet and scour the Web until she landed another freelance job. Then tonight she’d work like a little elf, crocheting until her fingers fell off.

She had credentials, clips, experience. She’d be fine.

There. A plan. Already she felt better. The rain sputtered against the Honda. Anita turned the key in the ignition.

Click, click, click. Then, nothing.

“Come on, baby.” She pressed on the gas pedal, turned the key again and prayed.

This time, the car didn’t even bother to click. Nothing but silence.

She climbed out of the vehicle, shut the door and popped the hood. Everything looked normal. The same jumble of wires and metal that had been there for the past six years.

No job. No car. No money. Even Anita had to admit she was facing a problem she didn’t have a ready solution for.

She didn’t know anyone yet in town, except for Miss Marchand, whom she doubted would be very mechanical. Maybe she could catch a ride downtown in the little red wagon.

There’s always Luke, her mind reminded her. Nope, she wasn’t going to call on him for help. Relying on Luke would be opening doors best left shut.

Or…there was his father, the part-time handyman. Maybe his skills included giving CPR to dead Hondas. She slung her laptop over her shoulder, grabbed an umbrella out of the hall closet, left a note for the electrician to go in through the back door—if he wanted to steal some unpacked boxes, more power to him—and then set out for Cherry Street in her sandals and sundress.

Mercy was a small town and within fifteen minutes, Anita had found it. The third house down was a white ranch with a hand-painted sign in the shape of a happy yellow daisy announcing, “The Doles Welcome You.”

She walked up the brick path, hesitating before she rang the bell. She told herself she didn’t care if Luke was the one on the other side of the door.

And yet, if that was true, the voice in the back of her mind asked, then why had she moved within three blocks of the only man she’d ever really trusted? Why did she care so much about the way his shoulders seemed to sag, the dark circles beneath his eyes and the way he looked at his daughter as if he was missing a piece of his soul?

Luke Dole didn’t fit into her plans for the future. Heck, he’d barely fit through her window.

He was the exact kind of man she didn’t need—a workaholic who spent more time at the office than living his life. And Anita wasn’t the kind of woman who relied on other people. Life had taught her that people left her, just when she needed them most. She was just fine on her own, thank you very much.

Nope, she wasn’t about to let Luke Dole in through the front door—of the house or of her heart. Not again.

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