was a nightmare for him, when he was required to wear shorts that exposed stick-thin legs. Jon smiled a little, thinking about the boy he’d been. A boy with size-thirteen feet that sometimes seemed to be only loosely attached to him. Getting interested in girls, and knowing he looked ridiculous to them.
Sierra’s body still wasn’t quite finished, but she hadn’t looked as if she was clumsy, not the way he’d been. But maybe she had been when she was younger. He wouldn’t be surprised. By sixteen, he’d finally been gaining some muscle, some coordination. By twenty, he guessed Sierra would be a beauty, model-slender and graceful. Did she know that, or still despair?
She had to be smart, or she wouldn’t have been able to track him down. He had a feeling Ms. Malone hadn’t helped. She’d radiated too much disapproval. So Sierra was enterprising, too. Creative. He’d never heard of a kid using DNA to find a sperm-donor father. And she must be a dreamer, or she wouldn’t have embarked on her plan in the first place. He’d been driven, but he wouldn’t call himself a dreamer. At that age, he’d been engaged in ice-cold warfare with his father. Sometimes he thought his every decision had been made in anger and rebellion. He’d been consumed by that anger.
Sierra’s decisions were being made in grief and loneliness.
“Damn,” he whispered to the moonlit room.
His mind drifted. What would Mom think of her? He knew. His mom would be shocked at first, that he’d sold sperm, that she had unknown grandkids out there. She would look as disapproving as Lucia Malone had. But she would love Sierra, given her innate dignity and vulnerable eyes the exact color of his.
His sister, Lily, would, too. Although it would be awkward explaining to her two kids why they’d never met—or even heard of—this cousin.
After the election…
Jon gritted his teeth. That was almost three months away. Three months, during which Sierra would believe her father didn’t want anything to do with her. He wasn’t her father, not in any meaningful sense. There had never been any such expectation of him. Her mother had known the deal when she purchased sperm. He should be able to feel detached.
He couldn’t.
She might not be his. There was clearly a relationship to his mother—the DNA test confirmed that. But he probably had dozens of second and third and fourth cousins he didn’t know. Either he’d have to give a DNA sample, or they’d go to the sperm bank or fertility clinic together and ask for confirmation.
But he knew. He knew.
And he also knew he couldn’t live with himself if he turned away from that girl.
Election or no election.
“IT’S OKAY if he doesn’t call.” Sierra sat on one of the two tall stools at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, watching as Lucy put together a salad to go with the leftover casserole she was reheating. The teenager’s arms were akimbo on the tiled bar. Lucy heard her feet lightly bumping the cabinet as she swung her legs. Sierra was always in motion, even when she was at rest. “Really,” she said, convincing neither of them.
Chopping a carrot, Lucy said, “Give him time.”
Behind her reassuring facade, she roiled. The son of a bitch had better call. Or she was personally going to hunt him down.
Wham. She wielded the knife with unnecessary force. Wham.
No, she didn’t blame him for being shocked. She did blame him for being so careless with something as personal as sperm. She couldn’t imagine giving away her eggs. Men, of course, were a whole lot more likely to strew their sperm hither and yon with no thought for consequences. Except he’d known darn well that his would produce consequences. That had been the whole point, after all.
She didn’t even know why she was so mad. Her sympathies had—somewhat—been with him when this started. What Sierra had done was outrageous. It should have been impossible. Because of the publicity about his campaign, Lucy knew that almost seventeen years ago, when Jonathan Brenner gave/sold sperm, he’d been only twenty-one. Hardly older than Sierra was now. Lucy had done stupid things herself at that age. Who didn’t?
But she’d felt things when she first saw him stepping out from behind his desk, smiling at Sierra and holding out his hand. A quivering inside. Because he was perfect. Not perfect-perfect—his nose was too big for his face and looked as if it had been broken, his hair was cut shorter than she liked, to suit his law-and-order persona, and she couldn’t imagine that smile was sincere. And yet her first idiotic thought was that he would win the election because he embodied strength and razor-sharp intelligence and a gritty determination to protect.
She had done her best to convince herself that he could just as well be a cardboard cutout, with no more substance.
Except that he did have an excellent record on the job. The current sheriff had endorsed him rather than his opponent.
But then she saw the shields he erected when Sierra told him she believed he was her father. There was an instant of understandable shock, then…nothing. Blank. Except Lucy had the sense that he had immediately begun to calculate the pros and cons and develop a strategy. Would this pretty daughter be an asset or a huge detriment? His gaze had flicked over Sierra’s piercings, lingered briefly on her bright blue hair. None of which could be good, in his view. If he admitted he was her father, could the fact be kept secret? Would she go away if he made no admissions?
So okay. Wham. Wham. Lucy didn’t actually know that he’d thought anything of the sort. He was a cop. Of course he was good at hiding what he was thinking. She shouldn’t succumb to her own prejudices.
But oh, it was very hard not to.
Sierra had been watching in silence, but now she said wistfully, “How much time should I give him?”
“As much as he needs. Unless you plan to pester him?” Lucy took the salad dressing from the refrigerator, then handed it and the bowl of salad over the breakfast bar. “Put this on the table.”
Sierra took the bowl. “I said I wouldn’t,” she said, looking offended. “Just because he’s probably my dad doesn’t mean anything. Maybe he never wanted to have kids.”
Then he should have kept his sperm to himself, Lucy thought but didn’t say.
“I was hoping,” Sierra said. “That’s all.”
Lucy set the casserole dish on the table. She half wished she’d heated some rolls or a baguette, but she didn’t really need bread, too. She must have put on ten pounds in the past year. The financial risk and long hours required to get a small business off the ground added up to stress. Lots of stress. Lucy ate when she was stressed. She’d vowed to lose those ten pounds this year. One pound a month. How hard could that be?
The phone rang. Sierra quivered, but didn’t move.
“Do you want to get it?” Lucy asked.
“It’s probably for you.” Head bowed, Sierra stirred casserole around on her plate.
Lucy looked at her thoughtfully. Sierra was boisterous, cheerful and bold. Vulnerable yes, but she hid it well.
Usually Lucy ignored calls during dinner. Although she carried a cell phone, she didn’t believe everyone should be available 24/7 to any demands.
