Daddy, He Wrote - Jill Limber

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power.

      She probably wouldn’t even be able to find the stone house, even though it was only a short distance away.

      She stopped folding the blankets and stared at him, her chin trembling. “No?”

      Feeling uncharacteristically protective, he said, “Absolutely not.” He wasn’t going to let her take a step outside. She was such a little thing the drifts would come up to her waist.

      She began blinking rapidly, as if she had something in her eye. “But where am I supposed to go?”

      He wondered how sharp a brain she had under all those blond curls. Usually he didn’t have so much trouble communicating, but for some reason she didn’t seem to understand. Annoyed, he said, “Nowhere. You’ll stay here.”

      He told himself he didn’t care if she was unhappy, but the misery on her face made him want to take her in his arms. Oh, yes, he definitely needed to get her back to the stone house as soon as possible. He’d order a second generator in the morning.

      “Oh.” She sat back down on the couch, hugging the half-folded blanket to her chest. “Thank you.”

      Ian glanced out the window. “Where is the baby’s father?” His voice sounded gruffer than he had intended. It was none of his business, but he needed to know, and that irritated him.

      She swallowed hard and got a very strange look on her face. After a long pause she said, “Not here.”

      Odd answer, he thought. The father should be the one worrying about her and their child, not him. He didn’t want the entanglement. “I have my cell phone. Can you call him?”

      She blinked several more times. “Uh, no, probably not.”

      What kind of answer was that? Either she could or she couldn’t. What did she mean, probably not?

      She was acting very strangely. He studied her for a long moment, trying to read her odd behavior. “Trish, where is the baby’s father?”

      She swallowed hard several times and stared at the floor. Then she raised her chin and looked right at him with those big, blue eyes. “He’s dead.”

      Completely taken aback, Ian could only stare at her. Finally he said, “Dead?”

      She nodded, her eyes welling with tears.

      He didn’t know what to say. No wonder she looked so upset.

      Now he really felt like he was in the middle of a bizarre nightmare. He wanted to know when and how the man had died, but because she looked so scared and hurt, he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

      She must have loved him very much. Ian didn’t have the faintest idea why that should bother him.

      Chapter Four

      Trish couldn’t look at Mr. Miller. She stared into the fire, sure that when he got over the shock of hearing about Billy’s death he’d come to his senses and fire her.

      She was so lost in her misery that when he spoke she jumped. She hadn’t heard him walk up beside her.

      “Do you need any help with the arrangements?”

      Her mind went blank. Arrangements? What was he talking about?

      He waited patiently for a moment. “The funeral. Do you need me to call anyone for you?”

      Of course. He thought Billy had just died. He didn’t know she’d been widowed for two and a half months—because she’d been afraid of losing her job so she’d covered it up.

      His kindness nearly undid her. She shook her head. “No. It’s all over.”

      She hadn’t been able to afford a funeral. There really hadn’t been anyone to attend, anyway. She’d asked Billy’s best friend to get his ashes from the funeral home because she didn’t have a car to go and pick them up.

      A few days later he’d called to tell her Billy’s drinking buddies had had a memorial service for him down at the Stumble Inn, their favorite establishment. Apparently, it didn’t occur to them to ask her to come. She’d never asked him what he’d done with the ashes.

      “When did he die?”

      She would have to tell him, then he’d know she’d been lying to him all along. “Two and a half months ago.” She looked up into his startled face.

      “I see.” He picked up his bag and, without another word, turned and left the room.

      She watched him go, then choked back tears as she looked down at her sleeping daughter and whispered, “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” She could actually feel her security slip away.

      She had been foolish to think she’d be able to deceive everyone and keep both their jobs so she’d have the old stone house. Swallowing a sob, she stared miserably into the fire. What was she going to do?

      Trish hated feeling sorry for herself. She’d learned a long time ago it was a waste of time and got you nothing.

      Knock it off, she told herself fiercely. He hadn’t actually said he was going to fire her, and she had been taking care of things since Billy died.

      Heck, she’d taken care of things since she’d discovered she was pregnant and moved in with Billy.

      He’d usually been hung over in the mornings and stayed in bed, then he would take off in the afternoon to drink beer with his buddies or fish or go hunting.

      Trish decided to go and talk to Mr. Miller and present her case before he had too much time to think about what he had just learned. She had to convince him to keep her on. She’d proven she could do the job, hadn’t she?

      She tucked the blanket around Emma and then raced into the utility room behind the kitchen. She couldn’t go talk to him in pajamas with ducks all over them. She pulled her laundry out of the dryer, yanked off her pajamas and scrambled into a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt.

      She checked on Emma again, banked the fire and then headed up the stairs to the bedrooms. She paused at the first door with the light on. There was a black case on the big worktable under the window, and his wet overcoat was draped over the chair, dripping water all over the floor, but no Mr. Miller.

      She continued on down the hall to the next room and stopped dead in the doorway. He was standing at the closet with his back to her.

      His bare back.

      Her eyes lingered on the smooth expanse of skin covering his broad shoulders and tapering down to a trim waist.

      Trish felt her mouth go dry. The man was built like a Greek god. Who knew that much male perfection lay under his beautiful clothes?

      She must have made a noise because he glanced over his shoulder at her before she could back away.

      “Do you need something, Ms. Ryan?” he asked, sounding thoroughly annoyed, his words muffled as he pulled a sweater over his head.

      She could feel the color burn in her cheeks. He turned and watched her as she tried to remember why she had charged up the stairs.

      She’d been too impulsive and hadn’t given herself time to think about what she was going to say. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to bring up her future employment. She needed to be really sure he was in a good mood before she broached the subject.

      Desperately she searched for a reason to be standing in the door to his bedroom. “I was, ah, wondering if you needed, that is, if you wanted anything to eat?”

      Absently he rubbed his hand over his flat stomach, now covered by a soft sweater that brought out the incredible blue of his eyes. “Can you make me a sandwich?”

      Trish brightened. She knew her way around the kitchen. A full stomach would put him in a good mood. “Of course. Ham? Turkey?”

      She had shopped yesterday

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