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      “Yeah, love.”

      “I don’t like Allan,” she whispered.

      Jon’s inner antennae shot up. “Why, Brit?”

      “I dunno. Just that he pretends he’s you, and I don’t like that.”

      He emitted a relieved sigh. If that was all—

      “And Allan says things about Nicky.”

      A chill spiked Jon’s skin. His son. His beautiful, dark-haired, blue-eyed son. Who at fifteen had attracted girls, gloried in the attention, but still found time to read his sister a bedtime story. Who would have grown into a fine, upstanding young man had his father been there to guide him.

      He swallowed the burl in his throat. “What things, Brit?”

      “Mean stuff. Like, if we’d had him for a father Nicky would still be alive. Stuff like that.”

      Jon squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips together. The SOB was right. If they’d had anyone but Jon as a father, his son might very well still be kicking a football or slam-dunking baskets with his high school buddies. But then, if they’d had anyone else, Nick wouldn’t have been his son, and Brittany—with her little freckled nose and long, pale hair—wouldn’t be his daughter. The proverbial catch-22.

      One totally unfair to play on his baby girl.

      He opened his eyes and pushed a rough-padded finger above his right eyebrow where a headache festered. That Brittany wasn’t in some psychiatrist’s office with the mumbo crap being fed her by Colleen and the esteemed twit, Allan, was a wonder. “Sweetheart, I want you to listen real careful, okay?”

      “Okay.”

      “When Allan, and even Mom,” he added with a wince, “start saying things about Nicky that you don’t like, I want you to get up and walk out of the room.”

      “But what if we’re in the car going somewhere?”

      Ah, hell. “Ask them to not discuss Nick in front of you and if they continue, sing to yourself. Try to block it out as best you can. All right?”

      “I’ll try.”

      “You know I love you with all my heart.”

      “I love you, too.”

      “I’ll see you soon, all right?”

      “When?”

      “Summer…in a couple of months, like we talked about.”

      “Allan says I should stay here for the summer.”

      Jon bounced a fist on the counter. How he kept his voice from shaking, his emotions from screaming, was a miracle. “Peanut, that’s not going to happen. Now, I’m going to say good-night because I still need to talk to Mom before I hang up.”

      “Okay. She’s in the foyer saying goodbye to Allan.” There was a shuffle on the line. “Gross. They’re kissing and I can see Allan’s tongue. Yuck!”

      Damn you, Colleen. Not in front of my daughter. “Brit, honey, tell her I need to talk to her, pronto.”

      “Right. Bye, Dad.”

      “Bye, peanut.”

      The phone met Formica a second before he heard her yell for Colleen. It took almost six minutes of long-distance time for his ex to pick up. She got right to the point.

      “Just so you know, I don’t like being yanked away from an important matter.”

      “The next time you want to do the tongue tango with your lover, do it without my daughter around.”

      “How dare you. Al and I were discussing our wedding.”

      “I won’t beat around the bush, Colleen. Brittany is staying with me when school’s out whether your boyfriend likes it or not. It’s what we decided on paper, and no one’s going to keep my daughter from being with her daddy. Understand?”

      “Perfectly. Why should I expect anything different?” she said bitterly. “It’s always been you, hasn’t it? Whatever’s good for you. The kids and I were always last on your list.”

      Pain lanced through him. “I can’t help what happened in the past. But I sure as hell can help what’s happening right now. If Brittany wants to be with me for two months, then she can. Neither you nor that jackass you’re marrying has a right to take that away from her. And—” his voice turned dark “—if you do, we’ll revisit this in court. Oh, and another thing. Brittany doesn’t like Allan playing dad around her. Tell him to lay off.”

      “He does not play anything around her. He just wants to be a good father figure. Which is a lot more than her real daddy’s been over the last ten years.”

      That stung. “Look, I’m sorry I’ve hurt you, but dredging up the past is useless. We can’t change it.”

      “Tell that to your daughter when she cries at night for her brother.” The phone clicked off.

      Jon had no idea how long he stood there with the receiver humming before he finally set it back in the cradle.

      Blindly, he looked at the oak cupboards housing his few cracked dishes. He should go upstairs, take a long, hot shower. His clothes were sticky and cold on his skin from the rain, his hair knotted and damp. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be down with a bug and where would that get his plans to finish this house?

      In a daze he looked around the room. Like you really need a place this size, Jon.

      Where had his mind been when he’d bought it? Brittany was ten years old, a sprite with his blue eyes and her mom’s fair hair. A sprite who’d visit three times a year. Who required one bedroom, not five.

      And when she went back to Seattle?

      Here he’d be.

      Lone wolf prowling inside four dozen tall walls.

      Evenings, he’d sit out back. Sip a cool one as the sun dwindled. Day after day, year after year. He’d watch the grass grow, the trees spread wider, the hedge reach another ten feet toward the sky. All for what? Brittany?

      In three, four years Seattle would be prime pickings for a teenager doing all the things young girls do at that age.

      Misty River, Oregon, with its conservatism, offered piddly.

      He didn’t fool himself into thinking she’d want to spend even a weekend with him when that time came.

      Then why not let Allan-the-Great take over? Be the father figure she needs? A man home every evening, staying till morning. A family man. A man who could give Colleen another baby.

      Another brother for Brittany.

      Jon spun around and cursed. Stalking to the door, he yanked it open and stepped onto the back deck. The rain had quit and the moist night air struck like a frigid fist. Let him come down with SARS. Everything that mattered was lost already.

      Job.

      Marriage.

      Family.

      Nick.

      The floorboards thundered under his socked heels as he paced from one side to the other.

      Stopping abruptly, he gripped the new wood railing he had hammered into place two days ago. The rain slackened into a fine mist. He let it bathe his face, easing the pain. When he could think again, he hauled in a long breath and found himself staring across the dripping hedge. From behind frilly curtains, amber light glowed in the windows of the small house next door. A woman’s shape hovered in the closest window, then was gone.

      Rianne.

      Getting ready for bed? He checked the big, luminous digital on his wrist. Nine-forty-three. He fancied her changing into some cotton affair, cool for the upcoming warmer nights, but unadorned,

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