Worth Fighting For - Molly O'Keefe

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She decided to slow down, deliveries be damned, and pull over to the side of the road so she and Helen could really talk. “We’re just friends and we’re going to all these parties to help him with his new job.” She put the truck in Park and let it idle.

      “I know,” Helen said, and Daphne wondered if she was just saying what Daphne wanted to hear. “But it would be nice if we were all friends. And I think Daddy loves you.”

      “No, honey, he doesn’t.” She stroked her daughter’s cornsilk hair. He never really had. Not the real her. And certainly not enough to make it work. “But he loves you like crazy,” she said, smiling and tugging on Helen’s ponytail. Soon Helen would want to cut off that long hair, wear something cooler than a long braid like her mommy. Daphne dreaded the day.

      Helen smiled, some of the seriousness leeching from her face, only to be replaced by the quicksilver joy of a seven-year-old. “He’s taking me to the drive-in tonight. A double feature.”

      Daphne steered the truck back onto the road. It was Friday and Jake’s night with Helen. She’d convinced herself at some point in the past eight months that this one night a week Jake had with his daughter was a blessing for all of them. He got to know his daughter. Helen got to know her father in a very small way. A small, very regulated way that would hopefully keep her protected when he reverted to his leaving ways. And during those few hours Daphne got some work done.

      On Friday nights.

       When the rest of the world was dating or watching movies as families or fighting or making love or putting their children to bed. She was walking asparagus fields.

      It didn’t feel like a blessing.

      It felt lonely.

      She dropped Helen off at school, glad her little girl wasn’t too old or too concerned about being cool to forgo the kiss goodbye.

      And only when she was halfway to her first delivery did she realize she never asked why Helen needed extra food in her lunch.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      THE RIVERVIEW INN had wireless Internet, Jonah could get a cell phone signal, his mother had been bringing him coffee and food. So despite having been forced to stay, he was doing a very good job of not leaving his cabin.

      Jonah had been at the inn for exactly twenty-nine hours and he’d managed to avoid seeing anyone but his mother. It helped that he was busy. At least it gave him an excuse for his mother when she tried to persuade him to join her for a walk.

      “We passed the second soil testing with flying colors,” Gary told him. “We’ve got the green light to keep building.”

      “Excellent news,” Jonah said, though he had not expected anything less. “We’re ahead of schedule. I’ll contact Herb and we’ll get crews in there next week.”

      “Okay, but do you want to do anything with the newspapers?”

      “Send the press release like you always do,” he said, jotting “call Herb” on the pad at his elbow.

      “But those press releases don’t go anywhere. We never follow up and maybe with this bad press we’ve been getting—”

      “No explanations, Gary.”

      “I’m not saying we explain. I’m saying we clear the air. We tell the world what we’re doing and maybe get some wheels greased for Haven House.”

      “The world isn’t going to help us with Haven House.”

      “Donations would help and a little good press would make me sleep easier.”

      “We don’t need good press, so why pander?”

      “You are the most stubborn man I’ve ever met, Jonah. I’m your partner. And I’m telling you—I’m actually saying it loud and clear so you understand—you’re making a mistake. We need to talk to the papers. I know at least four journalists who would love to interview us.”

      Ouch. He and Gary didn’t often disagree but when they did, it had been proven time and time again that Gary was right.

      Jonah liked to pretend that wasn’t the case, but facts didn’t lie.

      “Fine. They can interview you.”

      “I’m not the Dirty Developer,” Gary said. “I’m the Dirty Developer’s associate.”

      Jonah knew it was practically a done deal before he even agreed. Gary was tricky that way. Tricky and smart. “Fine. Get in touch with them and e-mail me the details.”

      Jonah glanced at the window and saw the little girl duck again, just out of sight. The bushes rustled and he heard her whispering to someone or into a tape recorder. The redhead—Jonah would guess she was about ten—had been out there for most of the day, spying on him. The spy had astounding stamina and determination. He’d only been working and even he was beginning to find that dull.

      He smiled, remembering doing a similar thing to Sheila after finding out she was a full-blooded Hopi Indian. He’d followed her hoping to see some scalping. But she only grocery shopped and walked her dog. The disappointment had been sharp so he decided to give young Mata Hari a thrill.

      “Gary,” he said, watching the window from the corner of his eye. “Listen carefully. We’re going to put the bodies—”

      “Bodies?”

      “Right. The dead bodies. The dead bodies we killed.” He winced at his redundancy but the bushes were unnaturally silent. “We’re going to put them in the river.”

      Something fell outside his window. A bush rustled and the little girl yelped.

      “No mistakes,” Jonah said, smiling, straining to try to see the girl. “Or I’ll kill you, too.”

      “Jonah, you should come back to the city,” Gary said. “All that clear air is making you crazy.”

      Jonah heard the little girl talking to someone then heard the deep rumble of Patrick’s voice and his smile vanished. “Send me that e-mail,” Jonah said, distracted by the sound of Patrick and the girl walking up the sidewalk outside his cottage.

      Great. Visitors.

      “Got it,” Gary answered and hung up as a knock sounded at the door.

      Jonah opened the door and found the old man, his hand on the girl’s shoulder.

      The little girl, wearing head to toe purple, looked tortured, but she still managed to give him the evil eye. He swallowed a crack of laughter.

      “This is Josie,” Patrick said, his gaze flicking between them. “And she has something to say.”

      Jonah wanted to roll his eyes, call out the old man for this useless display of what…manners? Honor? Jonah didn’t believe a moment of it. Patrick wouldn’t know honor if it had bitten him on the ass.

      “I’ve been spying on you,” Josie said, gesturing limply to the window.

      “And…?” Patrick prompted.

      “And—” she rolled her eyes “—I’m sorry.”

      Jonah nodded at her and her tortured expression changed slightly. She craned her neck to get a better look inside his cabin.

      The girl was stubborn, and Jonah understood stubborn.

      My kind of kid, he thought.

      “You go see what Chef Tim has for you to do in the kitchen,” Patrick told the girl and she scowled.

      “Again?”

      “You got caught,” Patrick said, shaking his head, “again.”

      “But—” She looked at Jonah then Patrick, and Jonah realized that she didn’t want to leave the old man alone with

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