to Harry, Joe had turned his life around. Still, he supposed there might be some people who couldn’t forget his parentage or his shabby roots, particularly Kristin’s father. But that was too bad.
Early on, Joe Davenport had made up his mind to ignore those people who couldn’t quite forget who his daddy had been. And he damn sure wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life proving that he was good enough for Kristin Reynolds. For one thing, her dad would never be convinced.
But things were different, now.
There was a child involved. A child Joe hadn’t known about. A towheaded boy who might be his son.
If Joe was Bobby’s father, he’d do right by the boy.
No matter what Kristin or her dad had to say about it.
Chapter Two
T he next day, after his twenty-four-hour shift ended, Joe stood on the front stoop of the Reynolds house, preparing to knock on the carved oak door that boasted a fancy stained-glass window.
His excuse, which he hoped didn’t sound lame or reveal another, more pressing reason for being here, was to talk to Bobby about fire safety and give him a junior fire marshal badge. From personal experience, Joe knew the extra effort and personal touch would help Bobby be more mindful about playing with fire.
Harry Logan and George Ellison, the fire chief who’d dealt with Joe as a kid, had used the same approach. They’d taken him to the fire station and made him feel like one of the guys. It was an experience that had turned his crappy life around and given him a purpose, not to mention a station house full of friends and, eventually, a job he loved.
Joe would have come by to talk to any other kid who’d started a fire, but the semiofficial visit wasn’t his primary motive. He wanted to see Kristin again, to ask her point-blank whether he was Bobby’s father.
Because if the boy was his son, Joe was prepared to be the kind of dad he’d always wished he had. He might not be able to make up for the lost years, but he could certainly take an active part in the future—no matter what Thomas Reynolds had to say about his involvement.
He rang the bell, then rapped on the door for good measure.
Moments later, Kristin answered, wearing a simple green dress and her hair pulled into a ponytail. She looked young, much like the teenage girl she’d once been. The girl he’d once loved.
When she saw him, her emerald eyes widened and her mouth dropped. Obviously, she hadn’t expected him to follow her home.
He never had before.
Mostly because she hadn’t wanted him to.
But things had changed, now that they’d grown up and gone their separate ways.
“Joe,” was all she said, her voice soft, wispy. She blanched for a moment, then seemed to recover.
“I came to talk to Bobby.” And you.
“Bobby went on a picnic to Oceana Park with the family who lives next door. They won’t be home until later this afternoon.”
“I’m sorry I missed him.” Joe’s words weren’t entirely true. What he and Kristin had to talk about was best done in private, out of Bobby’s hearing range.
“Thank you for stopping by,” she said, as though wanting to send him on his way.
But Joe wasn’t about to be put off. “Like I said before, Kristin, you and I have some things to discuss. And I thought now might be a good time.”
She glanced over her shoulder and, before Joe could broach his main question, she took his arm and led him across the manicured lawn to the silver Chevy Tahoe he’d parked in the drive. “Now’s not the right time.”
Because her father was home, no doubt.
Would Thomas Reynolds always stand between them like an armed sentry? Or a rottweiler with eyes glazed and teeth bared?
Joe crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze snagging hers and demanding the truth—the real reason why now wasn’t a good time to talk. “What’s the matter, Kristin? Afraid your father will see me on his property and come running with his shotgun?”
“No, of course not.”
Joe didn’t believe her. The lie she’d uttered had brought a blush to her cheeks and a splotch to her throat and neck. She was afraid her dad would raise hell.
Well, he would just cut to the chase. “All right, Kristin. I’ll go. For now. But answer one question. Am I Bobby’s father?”
Her lips pursed, and she crossed her arms in a defensive stance. “Bobby isn’t your concern.”
“If he’s my son, he is.”
She stood there, silent and cool as a Grecian statue, yet Joe had the feeling an unexpected gust of wind would blow her over and smash her to smithereens.
For some insane reason, he felt an urge to comfort her, to wrap her in his arms and pull her close. Tell her she could depend on him for support.
But Kristin Reynolds, soft and gentle as she was on the outside, had an inner strength Joe had always admired. So instead of giving in and offering the protective gesture, he held firm. “I want some answers. And I’m not going away until I get them.”
She turned her back, as if to stomp off, but her feet remained rooted to the driveway. Was she crying? Considering a response? Trying to decide on how to tell him the truth?
Or was she merely going to recite the trespassing laws? Remind him that he’d never been welcome on Reynolds property?
Trying to gain control of her emotions, Kristin brushed a tear from her eye and stared at the front porch of the house in which she’d grown up, the home that had offered her refuge, comfort and safety over the years.
As much as she’d hoped Joe wouldn’t show any interest in her son, she knew the cocky, take-charge firefighter wouldn’t be put off.
What a sticky wicket she’d found herself in now.
She'd told Joe that she wasn’t afraid her father would come chasing after him with a shotgun. And she wasn’t. Her father wasn’t a violent man, although he’d been known to raise his voice loud enough to cause people to tremble when he’d been crossed.
But Joe’s presence and the subject he wanted to discuss would cause Thomas Reynolds to rant and rave, which, God forbid, could trigger the heart attack that might kill him.
Joe took her by the hand, turned her to face him. “I want a blood test to establish paternity.”
Kristin blew out a weary sigh. The stubborn fireman was taking this too far. She had to tell him something. The truth, she supposed. But not until she could get his promise. His promise to keep her secret until it was safe to reveal.
She swiped at a loose strand of hair that had slipped free of her ponytail and tickled her cheek, then gazed at the angular face of the man who had such power over her—power to turn her knees to jelly,
