with you in your prissy little dress and your prissy little ponytail and your prissy little books. You’re the only one in the family who didn’t routinely close doors in my face.”
Though he said it lightly, shame stabbed at Sophy. When Sean had shown up for his and Reba’s first date, Mom and Dad had been arguing upstairs with her, so Sophy had answered the door. She’d invited him inside, and he’d taken maybe two steps across the threshold when her father had rushed down the stairs, ushered him back out, then closed the door. A quick peek out the window had shown that his features were bronzed, but they’d been nowhere as hot as her face was now.
After Reba had ridden off with the bad boy destined to lead her straight into hell, Sophy and her father had had a rather heated conversation about manners and being polite and standing behind the welcome they symbolically issued to everyone. The conversation had run in Dad’s favor, and that was why she’d made the point of being on the porch every time Sean came over. Waiting outside with her, she’d figured, would seem less a slap in the face than being told to wait out there alone.
“I’m glad you stuck with the dresses. Legs like those should be seen, not covered.”
The warmth of a pure flush touched her cheeks. “I remember hearing about this in middle school. Blarney, isn’t it? Pleasant flattery, charm, not to be trusted?”
“So young to be so cynical. All those books you were reading on the porch swing...what were they? Dry, dull stories by people who didn’t get their share of flattery and charm growing up?”
His description might describe the outside of the books, but she’d usually had one of her mother’s romance novels hidden inside. She would admit—only to herself—that despite the characters on the covers, all the heroines resembled her as she’d imagined herself in ten years, and a fair number of the heroes had had black hair, beard stubble, tight jeans and tighter T-shirts.
Interesting to know that fourteen years later, he was still prime romance-novel cover material.
Corralling those thoughts, she gestured toward the work space. “Come on back. We’ve got coffee and snacks.” She patted an empty table as she passed and felt when he stopped following her there. It was a combination of heat and cold, comfort and risk and danger. Giving herself a mental shake, she continued to the corner, started the coffee, and carried napkins, forks, paper plates and her usual box of pastries from A Cuppa Joe to the table.
“Daisy, are you going to join us?” Please don’t, Sophy thought. No, please do. Pint-size safety was better than none.
Daisy skipped over to kneel on the chair across from Sean’s. “You fibbed. I don’t have any hair growing there.” Her pout made clear she was disappointed. She would have had some fun with whiskers.
“You will before long,” Sophy murmured back in the corner, putting coffee mugs, cream and sweetener on a tray. She didn’t intend for Sean to hear her, but his grin when she turned around suggested he had.
She carefully set the tray down, then took the chair beside Daisy. “I don’t believe you two have actually met, have you?” she asked as she took her coffee, holding the cup in both hands to steady it.
Daisy looked up over her apple juice, poured into a coffee cup so she didn’t feel left out and earnestly replied, “We just met. He’s a hooligan, and I’m a hooligan. Didn’t you hear?”
Sophy smiled for the girl but kept her gaze on Sean. After a sip of coffee, he grimaced, shifted his attention to his niece and asked, “Do you know your mom’s brothers?”
“Yup.” She held up one hand to count them off. “There’s Declan and Ian and Sean. They’re all gone. That means they’re in jail.” Conspiratorially she whispered, “Mama’s in jail, too, so she’s gone—”
As understanding dawned on Daisy’s face, Sophy realized that gripping the cup wasn’t enough to keep her hands from shaking. She set it down and clasped them together in her lap.
“My mama’s got a brother named Sean, and your name is Sean, too. Isn’t that funny?”
Maybe it was premature to say understanding.
“Not really.” Sean took a breath. “I’m your mom’s brother. I’m your uncle, Daisy.”
* * *
Sean had never imagined himself saying those words to anyone. Hell, he’d never planned on having family in his life again. He’d had enough of Holigans to last three lifetimes, and he had no intention of taking on a wife, her family, maybe kids. Too much responsibility.
But he’d said them, and here he was, holding his damn breath waiting for them to sink in. He had no idea what to expect, but it wasn’t the reaction he got.
Daisy stared at him a long time, her head tilted to one side, then put her cup down, got to her feet and slid her chair under the table. “Mama says she don’t need her worthless brothers, so we don’t, neither.”
Picking up the cup again, she walked away with a fair amount of dignity for a five-year-old.
Maggie’s words were no surprise. Neither was the fact that she’d said them to her daughters. She’d always been one to speak first and consider the consequences—well, usually not at all. The surprise was that hearing them in Daisy’s little girlie voice added an extra sting to them. He hadn’t even known she existed before yesterday, and she knew just as little about him. Of course she would repeat what she’d heard Maggie say.
“I’d love to be able to say something wise here, but the truth is, I’m pretty new at this fostering business. I’ve only had the girls a few weeks, and we’re still getting to know each other.” Sophy smiled ruefully. “They have a lot of personality.”
That was a polite way to put it. He’d usually heard words like unruly, undisciplined, out of control, disreputable when people described Holigans. “I wasn’t expecting a warm and fuzzy reunion.” He shouldn’t have met the kids at all. There was no need. He was here to deal with Maggie.
But when he’d left the jail, he’d walked out to his car, then kept on walking. Before he’d known it, the sign for Hanging by a Thread—looking like a tabletop holding scissors, needles, thimbles and a big spool of thread, with a slender pony-tailed blonde climbing up its dangling tail—was ahead of him. He’d turned automatically through the gate, climbed the steps, walked through the door...and there had been one of the Maggies he remembered: young, inquisitive, bold and innocent.
Innocence being relative, he thought, recalling her casual words: Gone means they’re in jail.
Five-year-old girls with big eyes shouldn’t know what jail was.
“So...” Sophy fiddled with her cup. “What brings you back to Copper Lake?”
“I heard about Maggie.”
Concern crossed her face, making her brown eyes shadowy. “You came for the girls?”
“You mean to take them?” He’d faced a lot of scary things—hell, he’d been in prison—but the idea of taking custody of a five-and a six-year-old girl made him quake. “What would I do with them?”
Relief washed over her, and she tried to cover it by breaking off a piece of cookie from the box in the middle of the table. “Mostly
