Hey, Mom, how much fresh rosemary did you tell me again?”
Claire was standing at the island in the kitchen, quartering tomatoes for the tossed salad in a bowl in front of her, he was annoyed to see. “One teaspoon ought to do it. Do you need me to check the flavor?”
“No. I told you I can handle it. You said you would sit down. So sit down.”
He decided Macy was an uncommonly sensible girl.
“Just a minute more. I’m almost finished,” Claire insisted.
She shifted her weight slightly on the crutches and he saw a spasm of pain cross her features. With a frustrated sigh, he set the first aid supplies on the kitchen table, where Owen sat near the dark, rain-splattered bay windows, then moved behind Claire and in one smooth motion, he scooped her into his arms and carried her toward the table.
Macy and Claire both made the same shocked sort of sound but Owen just giggled.
“Put me down,” Claire insisted. “Right this minute.”
Now why would he want to do that when she was soft and warm and smelled like strawberries and springtime? He smiled down at her and had the guilty satisfaction of seeing her gaze rest on his mouth briefly before she jerked it away.
“I plan to,” he answered calmly. “See? I’m putting you down right here in this chair. I’m not going to stand here and watch you overdo.”
“Fixing broken bicycles, bandaging boo-boos, carting around invalids. You’re just overflowing with helpfulness, aren’t you?”
He smiled at her tart tone. “Doing my civic duty, that’s all.”
He finally decided he’d held her long enough—probably longer than was smart—and lowered her into a chair at the kitchen table adjacent to her son, who was watching the whole thing with amusement.
“What would you like me to tackle first? The boo-boo or the salad?”
She glared. “Oh, do I get a choice now?”
“If you can choose wisely.”
She rolled her eyes, but he thought he saw a hint of a smile lurking there. Might have been a trick of the light, though. “I can fix up Owen from here. I could actually slice the tomatoes from here, too, but because I have a feeling you’re going to insist on doing something, you can finish the salad.”
“Wrong. I’m going to insist on doing both. You’ve only got one good hand. Just relax.”
She looked frustrated, but he also saw the lines of pain around her mouth, so he didn’t let her annoyance bother him.
“Let me wash my hands and I’ll take care of the BMX casualty here first.”
He took off his jacket and hung it over a chair, then headed to the sink where Macy was watching the whole scene with interest. “It really does smell delicious,” he said as he rolled up his sleeves and lathered his hands. “What are you fixing?”
“Spaghetti. It’s not very hard. I just have to boil the pasta. Grandma brought over the sauce, but we like it a little spicier than she does, so we always add some stuff to her sauce.”
Claire didn’t look exactly thrilled by her daughter’s confession—or maybe she was still annoyed at him.
“Whatever you’re doing, it smells perfect.”
“Thanks.” She smiled, adding pasta to another stockpot full of burbling water on the stove. “That’s probably the bread sticks. They’re just made with frozen dough, but they’re really good and super-easy.”
When he decided his hands were sufficiently degermed, he picked up the cutting board and knife along with the remaining tomato as well as the cucumber next to it and carried them to the kitchen table to Claire. He still didn’t think she needed to be fixing a salad, but he knew her well enough to know the small gesture would please her—and even though he knew damn well it was wrong and maybe even dangerous, he wanted to make her happy.
“Thanks,” she murmured with a soft light in her eyes.
“You’re welcome.” He deliberately turned away toward Owen. “Okay, sport, let’s take a look at the damages.”
The boy rolled up his pants leg, revealing a relatively minor scrape.
Riley cocked his head. “Not bad. I think you probably need only about five shots and oh, about ten, maybe twelve stitches.”
Owen giggled and Riley thought how peaceful it was to be in this warm, delicious-smelling kitchen while the rain pattered against the window.
“I do not.”
“Okay, maybe only seven or eight.” He caught Macy’s eye and she grinned just like her brother.
“Just wash it off and put a bandage on it,” Owen said in an exasperated tone.
“All right, bossy. You must get that from your mom.”
“Hey!” Claire protested. “I’m not bossy. I just usually know what’s best.”
He smiled at that and risked a look at her, then regretted it when he found her watching his mouth again.
“Hey, Mom, did you know Chief McKnight used to be a bike cop?”
She cleared her throat. “I did. Alex is my best friend, remember? And Riley—Chief McKnight—is her brother. She has always kept me up-to-date on what he was doing on the Coast.”
Had she wondered about him over the years? The idea of her talking about him while he was gone made his shoulder blades itchy.
“What did she tell you about me?”
“That you were a good cop and that you sometimes did things you couldn’t talk about. Oh, and that you were shot and didn’t tell anyone in your family about it but your partner called and spilled the beans so they all played along like they didn’t know.”
“You got shot?” Owen asked, his eyes huge.
He frowned at Claire. “It was just a minor injury. I was back to work in only a few days. They seriously knew? Why didn’t anybody say anything to me?” he asked her.
“I guess they figured if you wanted to talk about it, you’d bring it up. Alex was all ready to head out to Oakland, but Angie talked her out of it.”
“Sisters can be a real pain in the…neck.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Owen said a tone of exaggerated misery, which made Macy glare at him.
“Hey, watch it,” she said.
“You think one sister is rough. Try having five, kid.”
“My worst nightmare!”
Riley laughed and stuck a large square bandage over the scrape, then rubbed the kid’s hair. “That should do
