want my son handling machinery.”
He gave her another long look, picked up a compact saw, flicked a switch and notched one end of the plank. When it was done, he carried the wood to the steps.
It wasn’t so much a dismissal as disinterest.
Jon Tucker simply did not care one way or another.
In all her years with Duane, she couldn’t recollect feeling as detached as Jon looked. Alone, yes. Despondent, yes. But never detached to the point where life constituted meaningless mechanical movement from one day to the next.
She drew closer, watching as he fit the board in place. “Sam’s not like other boys.”
Would he quit working and look at her? Discuss this rationally? Or—the thought nipped her mind—was he like Duane after all, harboring an inner explosive rage while on the outside he appeared calm?
Ludicrous. Jon was nothing like her dead husband. She didn’t know how or why, but she sensed a deep, agonizing pain in the man working on his house.
She started back to her yard, weighing her suspicions.
“Rianne.”
She hesitated. “Yes?”
“What’s the real reason?”
“He has a deformed hand.” Lobster claw. An informal medical label for the fusing of all fingers into one, separate from the thumb. A hideous label. But a label, nonetheless.
Something stirred in his eyes. Interest? “I hadn’t noticed.”
“He usually hides his right hand in his pocket.” When he’s around strangers.
“Do you want him to be like other boys?”
“What kind of question is that? Of course I want him to be like other boys.”
“Then let him mow the lawn.”
“That has nothing to do with—”
“It has everything to do with it. Let him be normal. He doesn’t have a disease. He has an individual hand, is all.”
An individual hand. Such an unfeigned term. Her annoyance evaporated.
He came toward her, the hammer in his tool belt softly bumping one strong thigh. Stopping within her space, he reached out and stroked her cheek with a heavy knuckle. The touch shot heat clean to her toes.
She wanted to lean toward it.
Toward him.
His hand dropped and she stood, heart thrumming, unable to move. His lips were masculine, the bottom one more supple. A corner of his mouth hitched—a smile?—then vanished.
“Boy has your eyes.”
“He looks like his father.” Abashed by her outburst, she glanced away. She didn’t want Jon Tucker assuming Duane Kirby meant anything. Anything at all.
“Still has your eyes. Same color.”
“I thought you…” What? Had no interest? Didn’t care?
“Don’t give a damn?”
Her cheeks burned.
He moved closer.
The warm morning and the heat of his body drifted over her. She wanted to scurry under the shrubbery, hide from those intense blue eyes.
“What are you really afraid of, Rianne?”
She stared at him. “Who said I was afraid?”
His eyes darkened. Without a word, he returned, lax-limbed and indifferent, to his tools and wood.
Chapter Three
“Nope.”
“Just like that—no?” Luke Tucker set down his early-morning coffee, fresh from the pot of Kat’s Kitchen. “This town needs a new police chief, Jon. Pat Willard’s let the department corrode for years. You going to sit there and take the chance one of his prodigies,” the word edged on acidic, “will slide into his shoes in September?”
Jon paused, knife and fork hovering over his open Denver sandwich, Kat’s dawn-riser special, and looked across the booth at his eldest brother. “Police work and I don’t mix.”
“Aren’t you taking this a little out of context?”
“Not as I see it.”
Luke’s mouth relaxed. “You’ve got to let go, man.”
Jon stared at his plate. The hunger grumbling in his gut dissipated. Damn. He looked forward to eating breakfast with Luke and Seth. Since he’d moved back, this was one ritual he relished, meeting with his brothers every Wednesday—hump day—for an early bite. It had started because Jon’s kitchen was a shambles. The second week they’d come because he’d needed their company. All those years away…he’d missed his brothers.
And today… Today, Seth couldn’t make the six-fifteen meet because of a job. Or, had it been a setup? Luke charming Jon into taking up the feeble torch Pat Willard would pass on?
No, Seth had too soft a heart. Especially when it involved his brothers or their alcoholic mother who still lived in the same 1920s house on the outskirts of town where they had grown up. Seth wouldn’t know an ulterior motive if it knocked him in the nose.
Nor would his little brother interfere in how Jon handled his pain.
Not like Luke. Who never wasted words or time. Good lawyer.
Jon swallowed the bite he’d been chewing before taking a sip of coffee. “I don’t need you giving me a quickie psych review on how to deal with my kid.”
“If you’re talking about your daughter, I wouldn’t dream of it. If you mean Nicky… That’s another story.”
“And none of your business.”
Hurt flickered in Luke’s eyes before he concentrated on scraping up the last of his scrambled eggs.
Jon set down his utensils with a clatter. “Look, I know what you’re trying to do, and I appreciate it. But I’ve got to find my own way with this.”
“You need to talk to somebody.” Luke held up a hand. “I know. I haven’t forgotten Seth and those school counselors. But this thing… You’re not responsible for what happened to your son, J.T.”
“Yes, I am, dammit.” At the rise of Jon’s voice, several nearby customers glanced their way. He gave them a hard look. Facing his brother, he said quietly, “Bottom line? I wasn’t there for my family. Colleen had to handle Nick’s rebelliousness alone. When I realized there were problems, I should’ve gotten off Drug Squad. But I didn’t. I liked busting down doors and grabbing bad guys too much. I wanted the rush too damn much.” He shook his head, miserable.
