CHAPTER SIX
“This place,” Sophie said, looking around at the ranch-house kitchen the next morning, “needs a woman’s touch. Or maybe a crack decorating crew from HGTV or DIY.”
Tanner, still half-asleep, stood at the counter pouring badly needed coffee. Between Sophie’s great adventure and all that sex with Olivia, he felt disoriented, out of step with his normal world. “You watch HGTV and DIY?” he asked after taking a sip of java to steady himself.
“Doesn’t everybody?” Sophie countered. “I’ve been thinking of flipping houses when I grow up.” She looked so much like her mother, with her long, shiny hair and expressive eyes. Right now those eyes held a mixture of trepidation, exuberance and sturdy common sense.
“Trust me,” Tanner said, treading carefully, finding his way over uncertain ground, because they weren’t really talking about real estate and he knew it. “Flipping houses is harder than a thirty-minute TV show makes it seem.”
“You should know,” Sophie agreed airily, taking in the pitiful kitchen again. “You’ll manage to turn this one over for a big profit, though, just like all the others.”
Tanner dragged a chair back from the table and sort of fell into it. “Sit down, Soph,” he said. “We’ve got more important things to discuss than the lineup on your favorite TV channels.”
Sophie crossed the room dramatically and dropped into a chair of her own. She’d had the pajamas she was wearing now stashed in her backpack, which showed she’d been planning to ditch the school group in New York, probably before she left Briarwood. Now she was playing it cool.
Tanner thought of Ms. Wiggins’s plans to steer her into the thespian program at school, and stifled a grimace. His sister, Tessa, had been a show-business kid, discovered when she did some catalog modeling in Dallas at the age of eight. She’d done commercials, guest roles and finally joined a long-running hit TV series. As far as he was concerned, that had been the wrong road. It was as though Tessa—wonderful, smart, beautiful Tessa—had peaked at twenty-one, and been on a downhill slide ever since.
“You’re mad because I ran away,” Sophie said, sitting up very straight, like a witness taking the stand. She seemed to think good posture might sway the judge to decide in her favor. In any case, she was still acting.
“Mad as hell,” Tanner agreed. “That was a stupid, dangerous thing to do, and don’t think you’re going to get away with it just because I’m so glad to see you.”
The small face brightened. “Are you glad to see me, Dad?”
“Sophie, of course I am. I’m your father. I miss you a lot when we’re apart.”
She sighed and shut off the drama switch. Or at least dimmed it a little. “Most of the time,” she said, “I feel like one of those cardboard statues.”
Tanner frowned, confused. “Run that by me again?”
“You know, those life-size depictions you see in the video store sometimes? Johnny Depp, dressed up like Captain Jack, or Kevin Costner like Wyatt Earp, or something like that?”
Tanner nodded, but he was still pretty confounded. There was nothing two-dimensional about Sophie—she was 3-D all the way.
But did she know that?
“It’s as if I’m made of cardboard as far as you’re concerned,” she went on thoughtfully. “When I’m around, great. When I’m not, you just tuck me away in a closet to gather dust until you want to get me out again.”
Tanner’s gut clenched, hard. And his throat went tight. “Soph—”
“I know you don’t really think of me that way, Dad,” his daughter broke in, imparting her woman-child wisdom. “But it feels as if you do. That’s all I’m saying.”
“And I’m saying I don’t want you to feel that way, Soph. Ever. All I’m doing is trying to keep you safe.”
“I’d rather be happy.”
Another whammy. Tanner got up, emptied his cup at the sink and nonsensically filled it up again. Stood with his back to the counter, leaning a little, watching his daughter and wondering if all twelve-year-olds were as complicated as she was.
“You’ll understand when you’re older,” he ventured.
“I understand now,” Sophie pressed, and she looked completely convinced. “You’re the bravest man I know—you were Special Forces in the military, with Uncle Jack—but you’re scared, too. You’re scared I’ll get hurt because of what happened to Mom.”
“You can’t possibly remember that very well.”
Benevolent contempt. “I was seven, Dad. Not two.” She paused, and her eyes darkened with pain. “It was awful. I kept thinking, This can’t be real, my mom can’t be gone, but she was.”
Tanner went to his daughter, laid a hand on top of her head, too choked up to speak.
Sophie twisted slightly in the chair, so she could look up at him. “Here’s the thing, Dad. Bad things happen to people. Good people, like you and me and Mom. You have to cry a lot, and feel really bad, because you can’t help it, it hurts so much. But then you’ve got to go on. Mom wouldn’t want us living apart like we do. I know she wouldn’t.”
He thought of the last dream-visit from Kat, and once again felt a cautious sense of peace rather than the grief he kept expecting to hit him. He also recalled the way he’d abandoned himself in Olivia’s arms the day before, in his bed, and a stab of guilt pricked his conscience, small and needle sharp.
“Your mother,” he said firmly, “would want what’s best for you. And that’s getting a first-rate education in a place where you can’t be hurt.”
“Get real, Dad,” Sophie scoffed. “I could get hurt anywhere, including Briarwood.”
Regrettably, that was true, but it was a whole lot less likely in a place he’d designed himself. The school was a fortress.
Or was it, as Sophie had said more than once, a prison?
You had to take the good with the bad, he decided.
“You’re going back to Briarwood, kiddo,” he said.
Sophie’s face fell. “I could be a big help around here,” she told him.
The desperation in her voice bruised him on the inside, but he had to stand firm. The stakes were too high.
“Can’t I just stay until New Year’s?” she pleaded.
Tanner sighed. “Okay,” he said. “New Year’s. Then you have to go back.”
“What about Butterpie?” Sophie asked, always one to press an advantage, however small. “Admit it. She hasn’t been doing very well without me.”
“She can go with you,” Tanner said, deciding the matter as the words came out of his mouth. “It’s time Briarwood had a stable, anyway. Ms. Wiggins has been hinting for donations for the last year.”
“I guess that’s better than a kick in the pants,” Sophie said philosophically. Where did she get this stuff?
In spite of himself, Tanner laughed. “It’s my best offer, shorty,” he said. “Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it,” Sophie said, being nobody’s fool. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t try to change your mind in the meantime.”
Tanner opened the refrigerator door, ferreted around for the makings of a simple breakfast. If he hadn’t been so busy rolling around in the sack with Olivia yesterday afternoon, he thought, he’d have gone to the grocery store. Stocked up on kid food.
Whatever that was.
“Try all you want,” he said. “My mind is made up. Go get dressed while I throw together an omelet.”
“Yes, sir!” Sophie teased, standing and executing a pretty passable salute. She raced up the back stairs, presumably to rummage through her backpack, the one piece of luggage she’d brought along, for clothes. Tanner simultaneously cracked eggs and juggled the cordless phone to call Tessa.
His sister answered on the third ring, and she sounded disconsolate but game. “Hello, Tanner,” she said.
No matter how she felt, Tessa always tried to be a good sport and carry on. It was a trait they shared, actually, a direct dispensation from their unsinkable grandmother, Lottie Quinn.
“Hey,” he responded, whipping the eggs with a fork, since he hadn’t bothered to ship his kitchen gear to Stone Creek and there was no whisk. He was going to have to go shopping, he realized, for groceries, for household stuff and for all the things Sophie would need.
Shopping, on the busiest day of the retail year.
The thought did not appeal.
“How’s Sophie?” Tessa asked, with such immediacy that for a moment Tanner thought she knew about the Great Escape. Then he realized that Tessa worried about the kid as much as he did. She disapproved of Briarwood, referring to him as an “absentee father,” which never failed to get under his hide and nettle like a thorn. But she worried.
“She’s here for Christmas,” he said, as though he’d planned things to turn out that way. They’d need a tree, too, and lights, he reflected with half his mind, and all sorts of those hangy gewgaws to festoon the branches. Things were getting out of hand, fast, now that Hurricane Sophie had made landfall. “Why don’t you join us?”
“Nobody to watch the horses,” Tessa replied.
“You okay?” Tanner asked, knowing she wasn’t and wishing there was one damned thing he could do about it besides wait and hope she’d tell him if she needed help. There were probably plenty of people to look after Tessa’s beloved horses—most of her friends were equine fanatics, after all—but she didn’t like to ask for a hand.
Another joint inheritance from Lottie Quinn.
“Getting divorced is a bummer any time of year,” she said. “Over the holidays it’s a megabummer. Everywhere I turn, I hear “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” or something equally depressing.”
Tanner turned on the gas under a skillet and dobbed in some butter, recalling the first Christmas after Kat’s death. He’d left Sophie with Tessa, checked in to a hotel and gone on a bourbon binge.
Not one of his finer moments.
When he’d sobered up, he’d sworn off the bottle and stuck to it.
“Look, Tess,” he said gruffly. “Call one of those horse transport outfits and send the hay-burners out here. I’ve got a barn.” Yeah, one that was falling down around his ears, he thought, but he owned a construction company. He could call in the crew early, the one he’d scheduled for Monday, pay them overtime for working the holiday weekend. “This is a big house, so there’s plenty of room. And Sophie says the place needs a woman’s touch.”
Tess was quiet. “Feeling sorry for your kid sister, huh?”
“A little,” Tanner said. “You’re going through a tough time, and I hate that. But maybe getting away for a while would do you some good. Besides, I could use the help.”
She laughed, and though it was a mere echo of the old, rich sound, it was still better than the brave resignation he’d heard in Tessa’s voice up till then. “Sophie’s still a handful, then.”
“Sophie,” Tanner said, “is a typhoon, followed by a tidal wave, followed by—”
“You haven’t met anybody yet?”
Tanner wasn’t going anywhere near that one—not yet, anyway. Sure, he’d gone to bed with one very pretty veterinarian, but they’d both agreed on the no-strings rule. “You never know what might happen,” he said, too heartily, hedging.
Another pause, this one thoughtful. “I can’t really afford to travel right now, Tanner. Especially not with six horses.”
The eggs sizzled in the pan. Since he’d forgotten to put in chopped onions—did he even have an onion?—he decided he and Sophie would be having scrambled eggs for breakfast, instead of an omelet. “I can make a transfer from my account to yours, on my laptop,” he said. “And I’m going to do that, Tess, whether you agree to come out to Arizona or not.”
“It’s hard being here,” Tessa confessed bleakly. That was when he knew she was wavering. “The fight is wearing me out. Lawyers are coming out of the woodwork. I’m not even sure I want this place anymore.” A short silence. Tanner knew Tess was grappling with that formidable pride of hers. “I could really bring the horses?”
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
“I’d rather handle that myself,” Tessa said. He could tell she was trying not to cry. Once they were off the phone, she’d let the tears come. All by herself in that big Kentucky farmhouse that wasn’t a home anymore. “Thanks, Tanner. As brothers go, you’re not half-bad.”
He chuckled. “Thanks.” He was about to offer to line up one of Jack McCall’s jets to bring her west, but he decided that would be pushing it. Tessa was nothing if not self-reliant, and she might balk at coming to Stone Creek at all if he didn’t let her make at least some of the decisions.
Sophie clattered into the kitchen, wearing yesterday’s jeans, funky boots with fake fur around the tops and a heavy cable-knit sweater. Her face shone from scrubbing, and she’d pulled her hair back in a ponytail.
“Talk to Hurricane Sophie for a minute, will you?” he asked, to give his sister a chance to collect herself. “I’m about to burn the eggs.”
“Aunt Tessa?” Sophie crowed into the phone. “I’m at Dad’s new place, and it’s way awesome, even if it is a wreck. The wallpaper’s peeling in my room, and my ceiling sags…”
Tanner rolled his eyes and set about rescuing breakfast.
“Serious shopping is required,” Sophie went on, after listening to Tess for a few seconds. Or, more properly, waiting for her aunt to shut up so she could talk again. “But first I want to ride Butterpie. Dad’s going to let me take her back to school—”
Tanner tuned out the conversation, making toast and a mental grocery list at the same time.
“When will you get here?” Sophie asked excitedly.
Tanner tuned back in. He’d forgotten to ask that question while he was on the phone with Tessa.
“You’ll get here when you get here,” Sophie repeated after a few beats, smiling. “Before Christmas, though, right?” Catching Tanner’s eye, Sophie nodded. “Keep us updated…I love you, too…I’ll tell him—bye.”
Tanner lobbed partially cold eggs onto plates. “No ETA for Aunt Tessa?” he asked. He set the food on the table and then went to the counter to boot up his laptop. As soon as he’d eaten, he’d pipe some cash into his sister’s depleted bank account.
“She loves you.” Sophie’s eyes danced with anticipation. “She said she’s got some stuff to do before she comes to Arizona, but she’ll definitely be here before Christmas.”
Tanner sat down and ate, but his brain was so busy, he barely tasted the eggs and toast. Which was probably good, since he wasn’t the best cook in this or any other solar system. Then again, he wasn’t the worst, either.
“You know what I want for Christmas?” Sophie asked, half an hour later as she washed dishes at the old-fashioned sink and Tanner sat at the table, tapping at the keyboard on his laptop. “And don’t say, ‘Your two front teeth,’ either, because that would be a really lame joke.”
Tanner grinned. “Okay, I won’t,” he said with mock resignation. “What do you want for Christmas?”
“I want you and me and Aunt Tessa to live here forever,” she said. “Like a family. An aunt isn’t the same as a mom, but we’re all blood, the three of us. It could work.”
Tanner’s fingers froze in midtap. “Honey,” he said quietly, “Aunt Tessa’s young. She’ll get married again eventually, and have a family of her own, just like you will when you grow up.”
“I want to have a family now,” Sophie said stubbornly. “I’ve been waiting long enough.” With that, she turned back to the sink, rattling the dishes around, and her spine was rigid.
Tanner closed his eyes for a long moment, then forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand—transferring a chunk of money to Tessa’s bank account.
He’d think about the mess he was in later.
* * *
Olivia might have driven right past Starcross Ranch on her way to town if Ginger hadn’t insisted that they stop and look in on Butterpie. In the cold light of a new day, Olivia wasn’t eager to face Tanner Quinn.
Last night’s wanton hussy had given way to today’s embarrassed Goody Two-shoes.
And there were other things on her mind, too, most notably Ashley’s statement on the phone the night before, that she thought she’d found their mother. No matter how Olivia had prodded, her sister had refused to give up any more information.
Olivia had already called the clinic, and she had a light caseload for the day, since another vet was on call. Normally that would have been a relief—she could buy groceries, get her hair trimmed, do some laundry. But she needed to check on Rodney, and Butterpie wasn’t out of the woods yet, either. Yes, Sophie was home, so the pony would be ecstatic.
For as long as Tanner allowed his daughter to stay, that is.
For all Olivia knew, he was already making plans to shuttle the poor kid back to boarding school in a black helicopter.
And that thought led full circle back to her mother.
Had Ashley actually found Delia O’Ballivan—the real Delia O’Ballivan, not some ringer hoping to cash in on Brad’s fame and fortune?
Olivia’s feelings on that score were decidedly mixed. She’d dreamed of a reunion with her lost mother, just as Ashley and Melissa had, and Brad, too, at least when he was younger. They’d all been bereft when Delia left, especially since their father had died so soon afterward.
If she hadn’t been driving, Olivia would have closed her eyes against that memory. She’d been there, the tomboy child, always on horseback, riding with her dad after some stray cattle, when the lightning struck, killing both him and his horse instantly.
She’d jumped off her own panicked mount and run to her dad, kneeling beside him in the dirt while a warm rain pelted down on all of them. She’d screamed—and screamed—and screamed.
Screamed until her throat was raw, until Big John came racing out into the field in his old truck.
For a long time she’d thought he’d heard her cries all the way from the house, the better part of a mile away. Later, weeks after the funeral, when the numbness was just beginning to subside, she’d realized he’d been passing on the road, and had seen that bolt of lightning jag down out of the sky. Seen his own son killed, come running and stumbling to kneel in the pounding rain, just as Olivia had, gathering his grown boy into his strong rancher’s arms, and rocking him.
No, Big John had wailed, over and over again, his craggy face awash with tears and rain. No!
All these years later Olivia could still hear those cries, and they still tore holes in her heart.
Tears washed her own cheeks.
Ginger, seated on the passenger side of the Suburban as usual, leaned over to nudge Olivia’s shoulder.
Olivia sniffled, straightened her shoulders and dashed her face dry with the back of one hand. Her father’s death had made the local and regional news, and for a while Olivia had hoped her mother would see the reports, on television or in a newspaper, realize how badly her family needed her and come home.
But Delia hadn’t come home. Either she’d never learned that her ex-husband, the man to whom she’d borne four children, was dead, or she simply hadn’t cared enough to spring for a bus ticket.
Fantasizing about her return had been one thing, though, and knowing it might actually happen was another.
She sucked in a deep breath and blew it out hard, making her bangs dance against her forehead.
Maybe Delia, if she was Delia, still wouldn’t want to come home. That would be a blow to Ashley, starry-eyed optimist that she was. Ashley lived in a Thomas Kinkade sort of world, full of lighted stone cottages and bridges over untroubled waters.
The snow was melting, but the ground was frozen hard, and the Suburban bumped and jostled as Olivia drove up Tanner’s driveway. She stopped the rig, intending to stay only a few minutes, and got out. Ginger jumped after her without waiting to use the ramp.
The barn, alas, was empty. Shiloh’s and Butterpie’s stall doors stood open. Tanner and Sophie must have gone out riding, which should have been a relief—now she would have a little more time before she had to face him—but wasn’t. For some reason she didn’t want to examine too closely, nervous as she was, she’d been looking forward to seeing Tanner.
She came out of the barn, scanned the fields, saw them far off in the distance, two small figures on horseback. She hesitated only a few moments, then summoned Ginger and headed for the Suburban. She was about to climb behind the wheel when she noticed that the dog had stayed behind.
“You coming?” she called, her voice a little shaky.
“I’ll stay here for a while,” Ginger answered without turning around. She was gazing off toward Sophie and Tanner.
Olivia swallowed an achy, inexplicable lump. “Don’t go chasing after them, okay? Wait on the porch or something.”
Ginger didn’t offer a reply, or turn around. But she didn’t streak off across the field as she had the morning before, either. Short of forcing the animal into the truck, Olivia didn’t know what else to do besides leave.
Her first stop was Stone Creek Ranch. As she had at Starcross, she avoided the house and made for the barn. With luck, she wouldn’t run into Brad, and have to go into all her concerns about Ashley’s mother search.
Luck wasn’t with her. Brad O’Ballivan, the world-famous, multi-Grammy-winning singer, was mucking out stalls, the reindeer tagging at his heels like a faithful hound as he worked.
He stopped, leaned on his pitchfork and offered a lopsided grin as Olivia approached, though his eyes were troubled.
“I see Rodney’s getting along all right,” Olivia said, her voice swelling, strangely thick, in her throat, and nearly cutting off her breath.
Brad gave a solemn nod. Tried for another grin and missed. “I’ll have a blue Christmas if Santa comes to reclaim this little guy,” he said. “I’ve gotten attached.”
Olivia managed a smile, tried to catch it when it slipped off her mouth by biting her lower lip, and failed. “Why the sad face, cowboy?”
“I was about to ask you the same question—sans the cowboy part.”
“Ashley thinks she found Mom,” Olivia said.
Brad nodded glumly, set the pitchfork aside, leaning it against the stable wall. Crouched to pet Rodney for a while before steering him back into his stall and shutting the door.
“I guess the time has come to talk about this,” Brad said. “Pull up a bale of hay and sit down.”
Olivia sat, but it felt more like sinking. Bits of hay poked her through the thighs of her jeans. All the starch, as Big John used to say, had gone out of her knees.
Brad sat across from her, studied her face and said—nothing.
“Where are Meg and Mac?” Olivia asked.
“Mac’s with his grandma McKettrick,” Brad answered. “Meg’s shopping with Sierra and some of the others.”
Olivia nodded. Knotted her hands together in her lap. “Brad, talk to me. Tell me what you know about Mom—because you know something. I can tell.”
“She’s alive,” Brad said.
Olivia stared at him, astonished, and angry, too. “And you didn’t think the rest of us might be interested in that little tidbit of information?”
“She’s a drunk, Livie,” Brad told her, holding her gaze steadily. He looked as miserable as Olivia felt. “I tried to help her—she wouldn’t be helped. When she calls, I still cut her a check—against my better judgment.”
Olivia actually felt the barn sway around her. She had to lean forward and put her head between her knees and tell herself to breathe slowly.
Brad’s hand came to rest on her shoulder.
She shook it off. “Don’t!”
“Liv, our mother is not a person you’d want to know,” Brad said quietly. “This isn’t going to turn out like one of those TV movies, where everybody talks things through and figures out that it’s all been one big, tragic misunderstanding. Mom left because she didn’t want to be married, and she sure as hell didn’t want to raise four kids. And there’s no evidence that she’s changed, except for the worse.”
Olivia lifted her head. The barn stopped spinning like the globe Big John used to keep in his study. What had happened to that globe?
“What’s she like?”
“I told you, Liv—she’s a drunk.”
“She’s got to be more than that. The worst drunk in the world is more than just a drunk….”
Brad sighed, intertwined his fingers, let his hands fall between his knees. The look in his eyes made Olivia ache. “She’s pretty, in a faded-rose sort of way. Too thin, because she doesn’t eat. Her hair’s blond, but not shiny and thick like it was when we knew her before. She’s—hard, Olivia.”
“How long have you been in touch with her?”
“I’m not ‘in touch’ with her,” Brad answered gently, though his tone was gruff. “She called my manager a few years ago, told him she was my mother, and when Phil passed the word on to me, I went to see her. She didn’t ask about Dad, or Big John, or any of you. She wanted to—” He stopped, looked away, his head slightly bowed under whatever he was remembering about that pilgrimage.
“Cash in on being Brad O’Ballivan’s mother?” Olivia supplied.
“Something like that,” Brad replied, meeting Olivia’s eyes again, though it obviously wasn’t easy. “She’s bad news, Liv. But she won’t come back to Stone Creek—not even if it means having a ticket to ride the gravy train. She flat out doesn’t want anything to do with this place, or with us.”
“Why?”
“Damn, Liv. Do you think I know the answer to that any better than you do? This has been harder on you and the twins—I realize that. Girls need a mother. But there were plenty of times when I could have used one, too.”
Olivia reached out, touched her brother’s arm. He’d had a hard time, especially after their dad was killed. He and Big John had butted heads constantly, mostly because they were so much alike—strong, stubborn, proud to a fault. And they’d been estranged after Brad ran off to Nashville and stayed there.
Oh, Brad had visited a few times over the years. But he’d always left again, over Big John’s protests, and then the heart attack came, and it was too late.
“Are you thinking about Big John?” he asked.
It was uncanny, the way he could see into her head sometimes. “Yeah,” she said. “His opinion of Delia was even lower than yours. He’d probably have stood at the door with a shotgun if she’d showed her face in Stone Creek.”
“The door? He’d have been up at the gate, standing on the cattle guard,” Brad answered with a slight shake of his head. “Liv, what are we going to do about Ashley? I think Melissa’s levelheaded enough to deal with this. But Ash is in for a shock here. A pretty bad one.”
“Is there something else you aren’t telling me?”
Brad held up his right hand, as if to give an oath. “I’ve told you the whole ugly truth, insofar as I know it.”
“I’ll talk to Ashley,” she said.
“Good luck,” Brad said.
Olivia started to stand, planning to leave, but Brad stopped her by laying a hand on her shoulder.
“Hold on a second,” he told her. “There is one more thing I need to say.”
Olivia waited, wide-eyed and a little alarmed.
He drew a deep breath, let it out as a reluctant sigh. “About Tanner Quinn,” he began.
Olivia stiffened. Brad could not possibly know what had happened between her and Tanner—could he? He wasn’t that perceptive.
“What about him?”
“He’s a decent guy, Liv,” Brad told her. “But—”
“But?”
“Did he tell you about his wife? How she died?”
Olivia shook her head, wondering if Brad was about to say the circumstances had been suspicious, like in one of those reality crime shows on cable TV.
“Her name was Katherine,” Brad said. “He called her Kat. He won the bid on a construction job in a place where, let’s just say, Americans aren’t exactly welcome. It was a dangerous project, but there were millions at stake, so he agreed. One day the two of them went to one of those open-air markets—a souk I think they call it. Tanner stopped to look at something, and Kat either didn’t notice or didn’t wait for him. When she reached the street…” Brad paused, his eyes as haunted as if he’d been there himself. “Somebody strafed the market with some kind of automatic weapon. Kat was hit I don’t know how many times, and she died in Tanner’s arms, on the sidewalk.”
Olivia put a hand over her mouth. Squeezed her eyes shut.
“I know,” Brad muttered. “It’s awful even to imagine it. I met him a couple of years after it happened.” He stopped. Sighed again. “The only reason I told you was, well, I’ve seen Tanner go through a lot of women, Liv. He can’t—or won’t—commit. Not to a woman, not to his daughter. He never stays in one place any longer than absolutely necessary. It’s as if he thinks he’s a target.”
Olivia knew Brad was right. She had only to look at Sophie, forced to take drastic measures just to visit her father over the holidays, to see the truth.
“Why the warning?” she asked.
Brad leaned forward, clunked his forehead briefly against hers. “I know the signs, little sister,” he answered. “I know the signs.”