“Sure.” He followed her up the steps to the porch, the dogs surging delightedly around their feet, celebrating this reunion as if he and Zoe had been gone a month instead of hours. “Woof, sit.”
The Airedale dropped on the stoop, stub tail wagging, while the jealous Border collie, hearing a command, spun on her furry length and shoved out the kitchen door for her own—just as Zoe stepped up over the threshold from the mudroom.
“Watch it!” Arms full, Rafe lunged helplessly toward her, then stopped short as she tripped over the dog and went sprawling headlong. “Zoe!” He set his bags down. “Baby, are you—”
“I’m fine.” She pushed herself to her elbows, laughing, as the collie bathed her face with apologetic kisses. “Stop, Trey! Back off!” She curled her long legs under her and sat, as Rafe dropped on his boot heels beside her. Then her smile vanished, and her mouth rounded to an “Oh” of dismay.
“You’re hurt! Where?” He ran his hands down her slender arms. She’d broken her wrist years before in just such a fall. Not yet grown into her legs, she was always tripping, still clumsy as a foal.
“N-no, I…” She was staring beyond him at the cans and boxes that had scattered across the floor. Her eyes switched to his face and she gave him a shaky smile. “I’m fine, Daddy, really. Perfectly fine.” She started to rise. “If you’d go get the rest of the groceries, I’ll—”
“You’ll sit till you catch your breath.” Rafe glanced around for a chair, stood to get it. He scanned the spilled groceries, seeking the carton of eggs she’d mentioned. A blue box had tumbled nearly to the stove. As the words on its label registered in the back of his mind, his gaze stopped. Swung back. And locked on.
“Um, Daddy?” she said in a tiny quaver as he crossed the room.
He could hear the blood thumping in his ears. Those words couldn’t say what he thought they’d said.
What they really said.
Impossible. He straightened, holding a pregnancy test kit.
“What’s this for?” he asked in a voice that didn’t sound remotely like his own.
THE DUDES in Aspen Cabin and Cottonwood Cabin, who had driven over to the Indian cliff houses at Mesa Verde National Park for the day, had returned, tired, sunburned and happy—and an hour and a half later than they’d promised.
By that time Dana had assumed they’d stopped to eat in town. Recklessly switching her menu at the last minute, she’d decided that Sunday would be Barbecue Night, instead—you really needed a crowd out on the deck to make it a festive occasion. She’d told Sean to scatter the coals and let the fire die out in the outdoor grill, while she’d whipped up a tomato-and-onion quiche with a spinach salad for her remaining guests, the two sisters from Boston. They were perpetually fussing about calories, anyway, so let them eat light for once.
But no sooner had Dana pulled the quiche from the oven than the truants had trooped in, appetites raging, consciences shameless, innocently expecting a hot, home-cooked meal to materialize out of thin air.
“They’re brats,” she confided to Petra in the privacy of her kitchen. “Could even teach you a thing or two, sweetie, but don’t you listen.”
No fear there. Utterly absorbed in a game of Follow the Leader with Zorro, the cat, Petra scuttled across the linoleum, rump high, diaper askew. “Ca, ca, ca, ca!” she declared, reaching for Zorro’s tail, as he leaped up to the safety of a chair tucked under the kitchen table. Zorro whisked the endangered prize out of sight, then stepped serenely onto the next chair and sat to lick a paw.
“Cat, that’s right,” Dana crooned absently while she sliced the quiche into cocktail-size bites and arranged them on a platter. This, two bottles of wine and a bowl full of cherries, should keep her guests amused for the next twenty minutes or so.
But what then? Think, Dana.
She was too tired to think, and the pressure of ten healthy appetites demanding satisfaction in her living room sent her thoughts whirling like clothes in the dryer. Oh, drat, she hadn’t moved the load from the washer an hour ago, had she?
Focus, she commanded herself as she tucked the bottles of wine under her elbow, then hoisted the platter and bumped her hip against the swinging door that led into the dining room. As she passed the long mahogany table, she realized she’d told Sean to set it for four. She’d need another eight settings now.
But first food, she reminded herself. “Cocktail hour!” she announced with a smile and a flourish, handing the platter to Caroline Simmons and nodding at the coffee table. “And Leo, would you play bartender?” He was the one member of the latecomers who’d had the grace to look embarrassed. She placed the bottles of chardonnay on the sideboard, where he’d find glasses and a corkscrew.
“Could you use any help in the kitchen?” he asked, smiling down at her.
“Oh, thanks, not at all! Just sit down and put your feet up. You’ve had a long day.” She threaded her way through the rest of her milling guests, with a smile and a word for each, then went up the front stairs, consciously imitating Zorro’s unruffled serenity. Once she’d turned at the newel post on the landing and was out of sight, she took the last steps three at a time. Help? Oh, no, not me!
Arriving at Sean’s door—closed as always—she paused and drew a breath, steeling herself. Then knocked. “Sean?”
No answer, though she could hear music turned down low, beyond his barricade. “Sean, please.” He hated it if she opened his door without permission, but then, the other rule of his game was that he never seemed to hear her. “Sean!” She gritted her teeth and opened the door. “Sean, honey—”
“I told you, you’re supposed to knock!” he growled, glaring back at her from over his shoulder. He lay sprawled on his stomach on the bed, a book propped on his pillow.
“I need help,” she said, voice quivering with the effort to keep it level. She didn’t sound far from tears, she realized. Wasn’t. Oh, do I need help. This job had never been intended for one. That wasn’t the way she and Peter had planned it.
But now all she had was Peter’s son, glaring at her with Peter’s brown eyes. And none of Peter’s tenderness. “Please, Sean? I need eight more places set at the table, then some help in the kitchen.”
“Uh.”
She resisted the urge to demand if that meant yes or no. Hope for the best. “Thank you.” She shut the door gently.
Go ahead with the original barbecue? she asked herself as she hurried downstairs. No, the coals would take forever to reach grilling heat. But she couldn’t see cooking tomorrow’s steaks indoors tonight—what a waste. And Monday’s chicken was still frozen solid. Pasta, she decided, topped with peas, bacon and roasted red peppers. Garlic bread and salad. She shoved through the kitchen door.
Petra sat on the floor, face screwed to a tiny red knot of woe, beating on the linoleum with a wooden spoon in time to her hiccuping sobs. “Oh, sweetheart, did you miss me?” Dana scooped the baby up, kissed the top of her downy head, then settled her onto one hip and set to cooking one-handed. Peter, Peter, oh, Peter, if you could see us now…
CHAPTER
