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“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you coming over to talk to him,” Mallory said, her eyes still misty. “It’s not easy relating to a little boy, especially when handling all the day-to-day stuff is still so new to me.”
“Thanks for calling me,” Rick said. “I have to admit, this sort of thing is a little out of my league, but I tried to remember what it was like to be his age.”
“Well, your instincts were spot-on. And everything you said to him was perfect.” She reached out her hand, although he wasn’t sure why.
In appreciation? As a way of extending some sort of parental olive branch?
Or was she hinting that it was time for him to go?
Either way, he took her hand in his. But the moment they touched, a jolt of heat shot right through him.
* * *
Return to Brighton Valley: Who says you can’t go home again?
The Daddy Secret
Judy Duarte
JUDY DUARTE always knew there was a book inside her, but since English was her least favorite subject in school, she never considered herself a writer. An avid reader who enjoys a happy ending, Judy couldn’t shake the dream of creating a book of her own.
Her dream became a reality in March 2002, when Mills & Boon Cherish released her first book, Cowboy Courage. Since then she has published more than twenty novels. Her stories have touched the hearts of readers around the world. And in July 2005 Judy won a prestigious Readers’ Choice Award for The Rich Man’s Son.
Judy makes her home near the beach in Southern California. When she’s not cooped up in her writing cave, she’s spending time with her somewhat enormous but delightfully close family.
To my mother, Betty Astleford, who was my biggest fan, even before I uttered a single word, let alone formed them into sentences and put them to paper.
I love you, Mom!
Contents
Chapter One
Mallory Dickinson had vowed years ago that she’d never return to Brighton Valley. But here she was, back in town, listening to the empty moving van pull away from the curb of her newly rented home on a quiet, tree-lined street. One nice thing about the neighborhood was that it wasn’t far from the Brighton Valley Medical Center, where her grandfather, a recently retired minister, was hospitalized.
Alice Reilly, who worked part-time at the church, lived across the street. As luck would have it, the kindhearted woman had been the one to find her grandfather unconscious and to call paramedics. She’d also contacted Mallory and let her know how seriously ill he was. And then, last week, when Alice had learned that the house in her neighborhood was available for rent, she’d called both Mallory and the landlord, setting her cross-country move into motion.
As Mallory studied the small living room, thinking of all the unpacking she had to do, a bark sounded behind her, followed by a couple of bumps, a thump and a swoosh.
She turned to the front door, which apparently the movers had failed to shut tightly when they left, just as a big dog with muddy feet rushed into the house and skidded to a stop in front of her.
“Hey!” she said. “You don’t belong in here.”
The goofy mutt looked friendly enough, so she reached for its blue collar in an attempt to take it outside before it could track any more mud across the hardwood floor. But she’d no more than skimmed her fingers along the fur on its neck when the mutt jerked to the left, bumping a table with its rump and knocking over her grandmother’s antique crystal vase filled with the yellow roses Alice had brought over as a welcome gift an hour earlier.
She winced at the shattered glass, the scattered flowers and the puddle of water on the hardwood floor, as well as the smeared muddy paw prints.
The vase, along with several other valuables and breakables, had been packed in a box marked Priority. She’d opened it immediately upon the van’s arrival to make sure the movers hadn’t broken any of the contents.
They hadn’t, of course. And when Alice had brought the flowers...
But she quickly shut out her reason for setting out something so precious, so valuable, so soon, and shifted her focus to the dog that now headed toward the stairway.
Before she could protest or curse the negligent pet owner who’d let the animal run loose, especially after a spring rain had dumped nearly an inch of water overnight, the critter took off upstairs, its dirty feet undoubtedly tracking up the new beige carpet.
“No!” she yelled. “Don’t go up there. You come back here. Now!”
Before she could dash after the darn mutt, a man’s voice sounded behind her. “Excuse me, but did a dog just run in here?”
Mallory spun around, ready to give the dog’s owner a piece of her mind—and to tell him that he owed her the cost of cleaning the carpet—until her gaze met a familiar face.
Rick Martinez?
Her breath caught, and her jaw must have dropped clear to the floor. She wasn’t sure what surprised her more—the fact that the notorious
