she always did.
She’d initially volunteered at Providence Shelter in order to make a difference in these people’s lives. Instead, the people she interacted with had made a difference in hers. They made her humbler. More grateful. And more determined than ever to help.
Help people such as the little girl on the cot.
Lisa had walked into the long, communal sleeping area with an armload of fresh bedding that needed to be distributed. She saw the girl immediately—there was no one else in the room and the little girl was a new face. A new, frightened face.
She was sitting on the cot, her thin arms braced on either side of her equally thin body, dangling her spindly legs as if that were her only source of entertainment, the only thing she had any command over.
As Lisa came closer, the little girl looked up suddenly, suspicion and fear leaping into her wide, gray eyes.
Oh God, no child should have to look like that, Lisa thought. Her son was around this girl’s age.
The mother in her ached for the little girl. For all the little girls and boys who’d found themselves within the walls of homeless shelters because of some cruel twist of fate.
Very carefully, Lisa laid down the bedding she was holding and smiled at the little girl. “Hi, what’s your name?”
The wide eyes continued to stare at her. There was no answer.
Lisa sat down on one edge of the cot. The girl quickly moved to the opposite corner, like a field mouse frightened away by the vibration of footsteps.
“You don’t talk to strangers,” Lisa guessed. The little girl nodded solemnly, never taking her eyes away. “That’s very good. You shouldn’t. I’ve got a little boy just your age and that’s what I tell him, too.” She smiled warmly at the child. “My name is Lisa,” she told her. “I’m a volunteer here.” Lisa extended her hand toward the small fingers that were clutched together in the little girl’s lap. “I help out here at Providence when I can.”
Lisa had an overwhelming desire to wash away the smudges on the small, thin face and brush the tangles out of the thick, brown hair. But first she had to win the girl’s trust and, depending on what the child had been through and what she had seen, that might not be very easy.
“If you need anything,” she told the girl, “just ask me.”
The small hands remained clasped together.
Lisa rose to her feet. She didn’t want the child to feel crowded or pressured in any way. “Remember, if you need anything, my name’s Lisa.”
Picking up the bedding, she began to distribute the folded, freshly laundered sheets. She’d just placed the last one down when she heard a small voice behind her say, “Daddy.”
Lisa turned around, not completely certain whether she’d actually heard the word or imagined it. “Did you say something, honey?”
“Daddy,” the girl whispered again in the same soft, timid voice.
Lisa’s mind raced. Either the little girl was telling her that she was afraid of her father—so many women and children here had been abused—or that she wanted her father. She couldn’t tell by the girl’s expression, which had not changed. Lisa took a chance and focused on the fact that she had used the word “need” when she’d spoken to the little girl.
“Do you want me to find your daddy for you?”
The dark head bobbed up and down. “Yes.”
Was the man here somewhere at the shelter? Or had he abandoned his family before they ever found their way to this place? She needed more input, but right now, there was no one else to ask for details. “Can you tell me what your daddy looks like, honey?”
Before the little girl could answer, a tall, thin woman with premature lines etched into her face entered the room. She looked relieved to see the little girl sitting there. And then she looked angry.
Crossing to her, the woman wrapped her arms protectively around the child’s shoulders and pulled her to her feet. She pressed the girl to her, as if to absorb her. Or at the very least, keep her out of harm’s way.
“There’s no sense in you looking for him,” the woman snapped at Lisa. Her anger at the invasion, at being stripped of everything, even pride, pulsated in the air between them like barely harnessed electricity. “Monica’s daddy left us almost two years ago. Couldn’t stand watching us do without anymore. Like leaving helped.” Bitterness twisted the woman’s pinched mouth. “He’s the reason we’re here. Monica thinks he’ll come back even though I keep telling her he won’t.”
Lisa knew all about hanging on emotionally even when logic dictated otherwise. “Everyone needs to be able to hope,” she said, gently touching the little girl’s cheek.
“What everyone needs is to be prepared for disappointment,” a deep male voice rumbled behind her.
There was no malice in the voice, no overwhelming cynicism. Only resignation to the facts.
Swinging around, Lisa found herself looking up at a tall, darkly handsome man with intense ice-blue eyes. The sensual smile never reached his eyes or any other part of him.
She’d never seen him before.
He was dressed casually, but the dark-blue pullover and gray slacks looked expensive. The man seemed as out of place here as a genuine pearl necklace in a drawer full of costume jewelry.
Here comes trouble.
She had no idea where the thought had come from, but it flashed across her mind the second she saw him. The second his eyes touched hers.
“Who are you?”
Her voice sounded a little sharp to her own ear, but she didn’t like his philosophy. Liked even less that he expressed it in front of a child.
Behind her, she heard Monica and her mother leaving the room. She made a mental note to bring a small doll with her for Monica the next time she came.
If Monica was still here. Every little girl deserved to have a doll.
She looked at the stranger, still waiting for an answer. Was this some kind of a game for him? She was aware of his scrutiny. As if she was someone he needed to evaluate before answering. Just who did he think he was?
“Well?” she asked.
She had a temper, Ian thought. Probably helped her survive what she had to deal with in a place like this. “Ian Malone, at your service.”
He waited a moment to see if there was a glimmer of recognition. He didn’t write under his own name, but it wasn’t exactly a state secret that Ian Malone and B. D. Brendan were one and the same.
But there was nothing in the woman’s face to indicate that the name—or he—meant anything at all to her. Good. Even though writing was the only lifeline that he still clung to—and even that had been failing him for the past nine months—there were times when fame got on his nerves. It made him want to shed his skin, a snake ready to move on to the next layer.
