was a light on in the picture window at one side of the oversize front door. The top half of the front door was an oval of etched glass, and some light shone through that, too, encouraging Clair to stop, since it looked as if someone was there.
Once she was parked at the curb, she got out and locked her doors before approaching the place.
She climbed the four steps to the front porch, breathing deeply to calm those persistent jitters, and rang the doorbell. It chimed loudly enough for her to hear even outside as she tried to peek through the etched glass in the door for a preview of the man she’d come to see. But the design of flowers and leaves was so intricate that she couldn’t make out anything but colors and distorted shapes.
She did, however, see movement a moment after the doorbell had sounded.
And then, without so much as a Who’s there? the door opened, and on the other side was a mountain of a man.
Clair’s earlier thought about him bolting became instantly ludicrous. Her bet was that this was not a man who had ever run from anything.
And why should he? His size alone made him an imposing figure.
He stood there, at least an inch over six feet tall, on legs as thick and sturdy as tree trunks. His broad chest tapered to a waist and hips that were shaped by taut, lean muscle. His shoulders were wide. His biceps bulged enough to stretch out the short sleeves of the white T-shirt he wore. And if just the sight of his body wasn’t enough to tie Clair’s tongue, one glimpse of his face was.
He had a look that advertisers would clamor for—sharply defined jawline; sensuous lips with a devilish quirk to the corners; a straight patrician nose; deepset, penetrating eyes the same blue-denim color as the low-slung, faded jeans he wore; full brows; and light brown hair the shade of golden oak, close-cropped to a head that was perfectly shaped.
“Can I help you?” he asked when she still hadn’t found her voice. His was a lush baritone—kind, curious and confident.
But before she could answer him, a tiny boy ran up from behind him, grabbed one of his massive thighs as if it were a pole and swung around it to land on his foot with a joyous giggle.
“I tace you!”
The big, strapping, handsome man looked down at the little boy dressed almost identically except that the T-shirt the boy was wearing was red-striped and long-sleeved. Then he bent over, lifted the child as if he weighed no more than a small sack of rice and hoisted him to his shoulders to straddle his neck.
“I know you chased me,” the big man said, hanging onto the boy’s knees as if they were sweater sleeves dangling over his shoulders.
Then the man turned his attention back to Clair, waiting expectantly for an answer to his question.
“I’m looking for Jace Brimley.”
“That’d be me,” he said without hesitation and also without any indication that he’d been warned of her imminent arrival.
But Clair hardly heard him as her gaze locked on the little boy.
She’d been ten years old when Kristin was born, so she had vivid memories of her sister as a child. And the little boy was the spitting image of Kristin at that same age. Dark-green eyes, carrot-red hair that stuck out in an unruly brush all around his head, chubby cheeks, a turned-up nose and a deep dimple just above the left side of the same Cupie-doll mouth Clair had.
Sudden tears flooded her eyes and caught in her throat as she saw her late sister in the little boy. As she realized that he was flesh and blood—her flesh and blood. As he became real to her suddenly.
But she was still standing on Jace Brimley’s porch, beneath the scrutiny of those denim-blue eyes, and she knew she had to say something. So she blinked away the tears, swallowed hard and said, “I’m Clair Fletcher. Kristin Fletcher was my sister.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding his head and dispelling any doubts she might have had that he wouldn’t know who her sister had been. Who she was. “Come on in,” he invited then, as casually as if she’d come to check out a piano he had for sale. Certainly he wasn’t unnerved at all by her appearance at his door.
He stepped out of the way to allow her access, and Clair went in.
It was a cozy house. The entryway was small, with stairs straight ahead and a choice of going right into the living room or left into what appeared to be a den.
She didn’t choose. She merely waited for her host to let her know where to go from there, wondering if he might leave her standing in the foyer rather than offer more comfortable surroundings.
“Hang on a minute,” the big man said amiably enough as he closed the front door, flipped on a light in the den and took his charge into the other room.
“Changed my mind, Willy. You can watch the Barney tape now, before supper.”
On went the television and then, from what Clair surmised, the Barney tape, before Jace Brimley returned.
When he did he pointed toward the living room. “We can go in there,” he said, waiting politely for Clair to precede him.
The living room was cluttered with a large fleece-lined suede coat and a much smaller, heavy parka thrown over one end of a brown plaid sofa. Toys were scattered over the matching chair, the oval coffee table and even the hearth of the rustic brick fireplace and the second television that faced the couch.
Her host gathered up enough of the clutter to free the chair for her to sit on and one end of the couch for himself, depositing his armload on top of the coats at the other end.
Then he sat down and leveled his striking blue eyes at her. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” she said quietly, suffering a twinge of guilt, as if she didn’t have the right to accept his condolences. “I appreciated that the executor of the will informed us of Kristin’s death,” she continued in spite of her own feelings. “We—my father and I—had no idea where she was or what she was doing, let alone that she’d been killed in a fire. We might never have known.”
“I figured as much. I knew she was on the outs with her family from before Willy was born. Thought that still might be the case.”
“So you’re the executor of the will, too?”
He nodded solemnly. Obviously, it wasn’t a chore he relished.
“And you knew my sister?”
“We all got to know her. She lived here during the second half of her pregnancy.”
“Oh.” There was so much more Clair wanted to know, but now didn’t seem like the time to ask. Especially not when Jace Brimley was obviously waiting for her to explain why she was there.
“I…we…didn’t know Kristin was pregnant when she disappeared,” Clair began in order to oblige him. “The fact that she had a child came as quite a surprise.”
“I imagine so.”
“There are things that happened with Kristin that I regret. But…well…she was my sister and I loved her. And now that I know about
