LITMIR.BIZ

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the aisle forty minutes ago for a visit. Dahlia had encouraged them to stay and color with her markers while their dad slept. He looked weary, like a father who’d used every last ounce of energy to entertain his two young daughters.

      Dahlia could almost pretend she was part of their family. For a moment, she let herself imagine smoothing that unkempt hank of dark hair off his forehead, then she caught herself.

      She didn’t even know the man!

      “I’m hungry.” The wiggly twin, Glory, looked at Dahlia expectantly.

      “Me, too.” Grace handed Dahlia her marker. “When do we get to Churchill?”

      “Not until tomorrow morning. It’s a long train trip.”

      “Because Canada’s so big.” Glory nodded sagely. “I’ll get something to eat out of Daddy’s bag.”

      “Let’s leave Daddy alone.” Dahlia lowered her voice, not quite certain why it seemed so important to her that they not wake him up. “He looks very tired.”

      “That’s ’cause he’s not used to us,” Glory said. Dahlia thought the words sounded like something she’d overheard an adult saying. “He hasn’t been our daddy for very long. Our real daddy died.”

      “So did our mommy.” Grace looked at Glory with the most woeful expression Dahlia had ever seen. “She’s in heaven, with God.”

      “I see.” Touched by their grief, worried the two waifs would burst into tears, Dahlia thought fast. “I have a couple of chocolate pudding cups. Would they do?”

      “Yes, please.” Glory released the paper she’d been coloring and climbed up to sit next to Dahlia. Grace flopped beside her half a second later.

      Dahlia dug out the pudding cups she’d thrown in her bag before leaving Thompson to go back home to Churchill. Paying the high price for a plane ticket or enduring a lengthy train journey through Manitoba’s north country were the only choices available to reach Churchill. It took stamina for adults to endure the seventeen-hour train ride. Undertaking the trip with two energetic kids was a gutsy move.

      While the twins ate their pudding, Dahlia fell into a daydream about their sleeping father and the circumstances that had led to him becoming a father to the twins. A wet splat again her cheek snapped her back to reality.

      “I’m sorry,” Grace said, her blue eyes huge. “I was trying to scrape the bottom and the spoon snapped.”

      “You got it on her shirt.” Glory reached out to dab the mess with a tissue. She ended up creating a huge smear.

      “Thanks, sweetie, but I’ll do it.” Dahlia cleaned her shirt as best she could, knowing that the dark chocolate stain probably wouldn’t come out of her favorite top. “All finished?” she asked, eager to get the plastic spoons and containers into the garbage.

      “Yep.” Grace licked her spoon, depositing a drop of pudding at the side of her rosebud mouth before she held out her cup. “Thank you.” Her sister copied her.

      “You’re welcome.” Dahlia stored the trash, then pulled out a pack of wipes. “Let’s get cleaned up before your dad wakes up and wonders what happened to his cute girls.”

      As she wiped their grinning faces and tiny hands, the twins told her that they were moving to Churchill from a small town on the prairies where their stepfather had been a teacher. Dahlia wanted to know more about the handsome daddy, but the twins had other ideas.

      “Can we call you Dally?” Glory asked. “It’s a nickname. I like nicknames.”

      “My grandmother used to call me that,” Dahlia told her. Memories swelled but she pushed them away. This wasn’t the time.

      “Will you tell us a story?” Grace asked as she snuggled against her sister. “Our mom used to tell us lots of stories. Sometimes Daddy reads them from a book.” She tilted her head, her blue eyes intense. “Do you know any stories, Dally?”

      “I might be able to come up with one.” Dahlia spread the small hand-quilted cover the twins had brought with them from their seats. When they were covered, she waited for them to settle.

      This was what she used to dream about—kids, special sharing moments, someone on whom to shower the love she ached to give. Part of that dream had been a husband, of course. A man who’d love her as her ex-fiancé never had. A man perfectly comfortable with two little girls who couldn’t sit still, for example.

      At that moment, the man across the aisle opened his eyes—gray eyes that cool shade of hammered metal—and stared directly at her. A smile creased his full lips.

      “Go ahead with your story,” he said in a low, rumbly tone. “Don’t mind me.”

      Dahlia swallowed. Most definitely a hunk.

      “She’s going to tell us a special story.” Glory nudged her sharp little elbow into Dahlia’s side. “Aren’t you, Dally?”

      “Sure.” Dahlia swallowed to moisten her dry mouth and told herself to stop staring at the man across the aisle. He wasn’t smiling at you, silly. He was probably smiling because of a dream. You’re dreaming, too.

      “Are you sleeping?” Grace reached up and turned Dahlia’s head so she could examine it.

      “No, honey, just thinking,” Dahlia said, embarrassed to be caught in the act of admiring their father.

      “Do you know Sleeping Beauty? We love Sleeping Beauty, don’t we, Grace?” Glory bounced on the seat. “Tell us that story, Dally.”

      “Yeah,” the man across the aisle said in that husky voice. “Tell us that one.”

      But Dahlia was hooked on his deep voice and beautiful gray eyes. She couldn’t concentrate.

      Then he cleared his throat and her good sense returned. Now was not the time for distractions. She had too much going on in her life. This was not the time to get sidetracked by nice eyes.

      She forced her attention away from him and began her favorite fairy tale.

      “Once upon a time—”

      * * *

      I need a wife. Someone like that woman.

      Grant Adams glanced at the twins now asleep on either side of him, surprised he hadn’t woken up when they’d moved back beside him. The woman across the way was an amazing storyteller, her voice soft, melodic, like a lullaby. He’d let it lure him back into his dream world where life wasn’t so overwhelming.

      But though it was late and the rest of the car was dozing, Grant wasn’t sleepy now. He was nervous. They’d be in Churchill by morning and then his new life would begin. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was failing the twins by bringing them to such a distant place.

      A wife would have brought enough activities to keep the twins from being bored during the train ride. She certainly wouldn’t have let them bother other passengers, like the woman across the way. A wife would have known he’d need three times the snacks he’d packed.

      A wife could show these children she loved them.

      Not that Grant didn’t care for the twins. He did. Dearly. But he didn’t know how to be a father. He didn’t have the fatherhood gene—that’s why he’d avoided love and marriage. That’s why he’d vowed never to have children. Because he didn’t have what it took to be a dad.

      He’d studied enough psychology to know his lack of skill had to do with his mom walking out on his seventh birthday and leaving Grant with an embittered, angry man who drank until he was abusive. Grant had quickly learned to keep out of his dad’s way, to not cause a fuss. None of this had earned him that special bond other kids had with their fathers. After a while, he had given up trying to find it and left home with an empty spot inside that craved love. Two failed relationships later, Grant knew he couldn’t love. He’d vowed never to marry, never to have

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