that had returned, big time, not to step on any of the munchkins zipping around.
He’d head home, change his clothes and pick up his old carpentry tools. Then he’d stop by the squad room and sign out a camcorder plus some other stuff he’d need, and hope to hell he caught somebody fencing jewels at Emerald City in record—
The door swung open just as he reached for it. Next thing he knew, he was doing the two-step, trying to avoid walking through a woman and a little kid, but he ended up bumping into the woman, anyway.
“Isn’t he s’posed to say he’s sorry?” the kid said, looking up at her mother.
Luke gritted his teeth. Great. Now he was getting lessons in etiquette from a preschooler.
“Sorry,” he growled, but the kid was no fool.
“He doesn’t sound very sorry, Mommy.”
The kid’s mother hauled her back against her legs. “Emily,” she said quickly, “hush!”
Luke looked at the woman. She was a hazel-eyed brunette, maybe five six, five seven. No more his type than Katherine Kinard was, but he had to admit she was pretty.
In fact, maybe she was his type. Maybe under normal circumstances he’d have given the woman a slow, appraising look and an even slower smile. He wasn’t interested in playing around close to the job, but he wasn’t dead, either. When he saw a good-looking woman, he was interested.
But his mood was foul and both the kid and her mother were looking at him as if he might morph into a monster who ate children for breakfast. Why disappoint them?
“Emily didn’t mean—”
“Save it,” he growled. “And maybe you ought to teach the kid not to talk to strangers.”
The brunette gasped, the little girl’s mouth began to tremble, and Luke headed for his car feeling pretty much as if he’d just kicked a puppy.
It was a bad feeling for a man who’d never kicked anything except a bad guy who’d been trying to kick him. Still, he’d given the woman good advice . . . .
Who was he kidding?
Luke got into his car, pulled away from the curb and told himself he was going to have to improve his attitude, or both he and Forrester Square Day Care were in for a really miserable time.
ABBY DOUGLAS STARED AFTER the man.
Even from the back, he looked as rough as he’d sounded. Tall. Big shoulders. Long black hair caught at the nape of his neck. And a way of walking that said he owned the world and everything in it.
Maybe you should teach your kid not to talk to strangers.
She had taught that to Emily, drummed it into her head over and over. Her little girl knew that litany better than most four-year-olds.
She had to, because there was always the chance that Frank, or someone hired by Frank, might be out there trying to find her.
Trying to find the both of them.
If a stranger comes up to you, she’d told Emily, walk away. Don’t answer any questions. Don’t listen to stories about daddies wanting to find their little girls, or strangers wanting help finding lost puppies. And if somebody tries to touch you, run, run, run.
But that wasn’t what had happened. The man hadn’t sought Emily out. He hadn’t even spoken to her, not until he overheard her childish comment.
Still, the incident had shaken Abby.
She’d thought she was long past that rush of terror, the thump in her chest, the suffocating panic that came of suddenly being confronted by a glowering man who was physically intimidating . . . .
Who really hadn’t done anything but react to a child’s innocently made comment.
“Mommy?”
The man hadn’t showed interest in her or in Emily. He was just an unpleasant stranger and he didn’t have a damned thing to do with her ex-husband. All true, but logic didn’t matter. One snarl, one growl, and all the old fears came right to the surface.
Damn it, Abby thought angrily, could she still fall apart that easily?
“Mom?”
A little hand tugged on her skirt. Abby blinked, looked down into her daughter’s upturned face and saw the telltale glimmer of tears on her lashes.
“Oh, honey!” She bent down, clasped her child’s shoulders and dropped a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Don’t be upset, Em. That man was just—”
“He yelled at you.”
“No. He wasn’t exactly yelling, baby. He was just . . . ”
“Daddy used to yell.” Emily’s voice quavered. “I ‘member.”
Abby’s heart turned over. How could her little girl remember that? She’d left Frank when her baby was two . . . but children sometimes stored up things subconsciously.
A social worker had mentioned that at the shelter back in Eugene. Katherine Kinard had said something similar during a parents’ coffee klatch. A worried-looking father had mentioned that his son had had a bad experience in day care when he was only a couple of years old, and that he still remembered it.
That happened, Katherine had said calmly. Children’s memories went back further than many people thought. What mattered was letting a child admit bad things had happened, and then helping the child leave those things behind.
Abby nodded. “Yes,” she admitted gently, “he did. Sometimes people yell when they’re angry at each other.”
Emily’s face scrunched up in serious thought.
“Sam says his daddy never yells.”
Abby smiled. Sam was in Emily’s play group. “That’s good. People shouldn’t yell.”
“Was that man angry at me?”
“Well, he didn’t like what you said, Em.”
“But I was right. He should have said he was sorry.”
“Yes, but . . . Maybe he got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
“Or maybe it was ‘cause he has a cold.”
Smiling, Abby smoothed the frown line from between her daughter’s eyes.
“You think so?”
“Yup. His nose was all red, like Lily’s when she got sick. She had to drink lots an’ lots of orange juice an’ she didn’t come to day care for a whole week. Remember?”
“I remember.” Abby hesitated. “Em.
