could imagine that “Daddy Brad” was upset to find that the child he’d accepted as his own was somebody else’s, but taking it out on the child seemed pretty callous.
He leaned back in his chair, wondering what in hell he was going to do with his short houseguest. He didn’t know anything about kids. He wasn’t sure he even liked them. And this one already looked like a handful. She was outspoken and belligerent and not much to look at. He could see trouble ahead.
Mrs. Jackson came into the room to see if Blake wanted anything, and stopped dead. She was fifty-five, a spinster, graying and thin and faintly intimidating to people who didn’t know her. She was used to a bachelor household, and the sight of a child sitting across from her boss was vaguely unnerving.
“Who’s that?” she asked, without dressing up the question.
Sarah looked at her and sighed, as if saying, oh, no, here’s another sour one. Blake almost laughed out loud at the expression on the child’s face.
“This is Amie Jackson, Sarah,” Blake said, introducing them. “Mrs. Jackson, Sarah Jane is my daughter.”
Mrs. Jackson didn’t faint, but she did go a shade redder. “Yes, sir, that’s hard to miss,” she said, comparing the small, composed child’s face with its older male counterpart. “Her mother isn’t here?” she added, staring around as if she expected Nina to materialize.
“Nina is dead,” Blake said without any particular feeling. Nina had knocked the finer feelings out of him years ago. His own foolish blindness to her real nature had helped her in the task.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Mrs. Jackson rubbed her apron between her thin hands for something to do. “Would she like some milk and cookies?” she asked hesitantly.
“That might be nice. Sarah?” Blake asked more curtly than he’d meant.
Sarah shifted and stared at the carpet. “I’d get crumbs on the floor.” She shook her head. “Mrs. Smathers says kids should eat off the kitchen floor ’cause they’re messy.”
Mrs. Jackson looked uncomfortable, and Blake sighed heavily. “You can get crumbs on the floor. Nobody’s going to yell at you.”
Sarah glanced up hesitantly.
“I don’t mind cleaning up crumbs,” Mrs. Jackson said testily. “Do you want cookies?”
“Yes, please.”
The older woman nodded curtly and went to get some.
“Nobody smiles here,” Sarah murmured. “It’s just like home.”
Blake felt a twinge of regret for the child, who seemed to have been stuck away in the housekeeper’s corner with no thought for her well-being. And not just since her stepfather had found out that she was Blake’s child, apparently.
His eyes narrowed and he asked the question that was consuming him. “Didn’t your mother stay with you?”
“Mommy was busy,” Sarah said. “She said I had to stay with Mrs. Smathers and do what she said.”
“Wasn’t she home from time to time?”
“She and my daddy—” she faltered and grimaced “—my other daddy yelled at each other mostly. Then she went away and he went away, too.”
This was getting them nowhere. He stood and began to pace, his hands in his pockets, his face stormy and hard.
Sarah watched him covertly. “You sure are big,” she murmured.
He stopped, glancing down at her curiously. “You sure are little,” he returned.
“I’ll grow,” Sarah promised. “Do you have a horse?”
“Several.”
She brightened. “I can ride a horse!”
“Not on my ranch, you can’t.”
Her green eyes flashed fire. “I can so if I want to. I can ride any horse!”
He knelt in front of her very slowly, and his green eyes met hers levelly and without blinking. “No,” he said firmly. “You’ll do what you’re told, and you won’t talk back. This is my place, and I make the rules. Got it?”
She hesitated, but only for a minute. “Okay,” she said sulkily.
He touched the tip of her pert nose. “And no sulking. I don’t know how this is going to work out,” he added curtly. “Hell, I don’t know anything about kids!”
“Hell is where you go when you’re bad,” Sarah replied matter-of-factly. “My mommy’s friend used to talk about it all the time, and about damns and sons of—”
“Sarah!” Blake burst out, shocked that a child her age should be so familiar with bad words.
“Do you have any cows?” she added, easily diverted.
“A few,” he muttered. “Which one of your mummy’s friends used language like that around you?”
“Just Trudy,” she said, wide-eyed.
Blake whistled through his teeth and turned just as Mrs. Jackson came in with a tray of milk and cookies for Sarah and coffee for Blake.
“I like coffee,” Sarah said. “My mommy let me drink it when she had hers in bed and she wasn’t awake good.”
“I’ll bet,” Blake said, “but you aren’t drinking it here. Coffee isn’t good for kids.”
“I can have coffee if I want to,” Sarah returned belligerently.
Blake looked at Mrs. Jackson, who was more or less frozen in place, staring at the little girl as she grabbed four cookies and proceeded to stuff them into her mouth as if she hadn’t eaten in days.
“You quit, or even try to quit,” Blake told the housekeeper, who’d looked after his uncle before him, “and so help me God, I’ll track you all the way to Alaska and drag you back here by one foot.”
“Me, quit? Just when things are getting interesting?” Mrs. Jackson lifted her chin. “God forbid.”
“Sarah, when was the last time you ate?” Blake inquired, watching her grab another handful of cookies.
“I had supper,” she said, “and then we came here.”
“You haven’t had breakfast?” he burst out. “Or lunch?”
She shook her head. “These cookies are good!”
“If you haven’t eaten for almost a day, I imagine so.” He sighed. “You’d better make us an early dinner tonight,” Blake told Mrs. Jackson. “She’ll eat herself sick on cookies if we’re not careful.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll go and make up the guest room for her,” she said. “But what about clothes? Does she have a suitcase?”
