him. Quinn snatched his hand back with a startled exclamation.
“Sorry.” She took a steadying breath, trying to calm her stampeding pulse. “That’s Hannibal. You’re encroaching on his favorite place.”
As this man was with her. This was her shop, she reminded herself. Her town, her place in the world. She belonged here now. She stroked the tomcat. Hannibal pushed his head firmly against her hand and then sat, folding front paws majestically under his white bib.
“I saw him in the window. I thought he was a stuffed toy.” Quinn held out his hand. Hannibal sniffed cautiously, then deigned to let himself be scratched behind the ear.
She took another deep breath. Calm down. Don’t overreact. Whatever Quinn wanted, it didn’t necessarily have to be bad. She watched as he stroked the cat, giving it the same concentration he had her.
Quinn’s daughter must have gotten her red hair and freckles from some other part of the family tree. His hair was a dark, rich shade of brown, the color of ripe chestnuts. Straight dark brows contrasted with surprisingly light eyes—not quite blue, closer to slate. His tanned skin and the feathering of sun lines around his eyes suggested years of outdoor work in a place far from this green Pennsylvania valley. He had a firm mouth and an even firmer chin that argued an uncompromising disposition.
He switched his gaze from the cat to her, and a little quiver of awareness touched her. That intent gaze was unnerving. It was much the same as the gaze with which Hannibal watched a bird before he pounced.
“As I was saying, about my mother and your father.”
“Gwen is my friend.” She hurried into speech, hoping to deflect whatever accusation was coming. “And my father is here for a visit. A brief visit,” she added. “Naturally they’ve met each other.”
“Because you and my mother are friends.” His tone made it sound sinister.
She held her gaze steady with an effort. “Yes.”
“It’s a little more than that, I think.” His concentration pinned her to the spot. “Each time I talk to Kristie on the phone, his name comes up. ‘Charles and Grandma did this. Charles and Grandma did that.’ He seems to have become almost part of the family in the last few weeks.”
Her mind raced. When had all this been going on? She’d been busy, of course, but she should have known what her father was doing. Maybe she’d just felt relieved he’d found something to occupy himself in Bedford Creek. That way she didn’t have to see him and constantly be reminded of the painful past.
“As I said, Gwen and I are working on the fund-raiser together.” She hoped her smile looked more convincing than it felt. “My father has been helping out, so I suppose he and Gwen have spent some time together.”
“Some time?”
His persistence sparked the anger that had been hidden beneath her fear. “This is beginning to sound like an inquisition.”
He didn’t bother to deny it. “I have a right to worry about my family’s welfare.”
Meaning he thought she and her father threatened it. She stiffened, meeting his eyes with as much defiance as she could muster. “Your family isn’t in danger from us.”
“When my sixty-five-year-old mother starts acting like a schoolgirl with a new boyfriend, I worry. Try hard. Maybe you’ll understand.”
The temper she’d fought to control escaped. “I can’t imagine when you had the chance to observe your mother. You’ve hardly been back in Bedford Creek in the past few years.”
His fists clenched, and she saw in an instant she’d gone too far. She knew about the death of his wife, of course. She’d barely become acquainted with Julie when the woman’s death in a car accident had shocked the whole town. In the two years or so since, according to Gwen, Quinn had buried himself in his work, as if to find escape. Now she’d challenged that.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, before the situation could deteriorate any further. “I didn’t mean that. And I certainly didn’t have the right to say it.”
“My work has kept me away.” He said it calmly enough, but a muscle quivered in his jaw with the effort. “That doesn’t mean I don’t care.”
She seemed to be juggling dynamite. “I’m sure you do. But Gwen…” She hesitated on the verge of pointing out the obvious—that Gwen was a grown woman who could manage her own life.
His gaze hardened, and she suspected he knew what she’d been about to say. “My mother’s led a sheltered life. My father always protected her from any unpleasantness.”
A spasm of memory clutched her. She’d led a fairly sheltered life, too, once upon a time, until her father’s betrayal had blown it into a million pieces. If Charles really was somehow involved with Gwen, it was probably the worst idea he’d had since that disaster.
She wouldn’t believe it. Quinn was probably overreacting, but she knew instinctively he’d be a bad enemy to make. She couldn’t afford to antagonize him any more than she already had.
“My father is just here for a brief visit. He regards Gwen as nothing more than a casual acquaintance.” She hoped.
His frown was uncompromising. “If there’s anything more—”
The jingling of the bell cut off what sounded like a threat. Ellie turned toward the door, and her heart sank. Why on earth had her father chosen this particular moment to come into the shop?
She glanced cautiously back at Quinn, and tension zigzagged like lightning along her nerves. He looked like a predator about to strike.
Quinn looked from Ellie’s suddenly guilty face to the man who’d just entered. So this was the father—it had to be. Why else would she look that way? He’d almost been swayed by her protestations, but now all his suspicions flooded back.
“Sorry, my dear. I didn’t realize you were busy with a customer.” Charles Wayne stood, hand on the doorknob, his expression mingling regret at interrupting with curiosity.
“I’m just closing,” Ellie said. “Maybe you could set the table for supper.”
She gestured toward the stairs at the rear of the shop, which must lead to the living quarters upstairs. Her desire to get her father out of his range was as clear as if she wore a sign announcing it.
He didn’t intend to let that happen, not until he’d had a chance to see the man for himself. He took a step forward, holding out his hand. “You must be Ellie’s father. I’m Quinn Forrester.”
“Charles Wayne. What a pleasure to meet you. You’re Gwen’s son, of course. She talks about you all the time.”
His smile was smoother than his daughter’s, more practiced. He had to be in his sixties, but he had a quick, light step that made him look younger, as did the sparkle in his bright blue eyes.
“Gwen mentioned you were home when I ran into her and little Kristie at the grocer’s,” he went on. “A delightful child, isn’t she?”
It was the trick of either a good salesman or a confidence
