the strong side of fifty. Her short, bristle-stiff hair was still brown, although gray roots showed. Rory had not seen her stand in place for longer than a second since she’d arrived—and even then, her knitting needles had clicked like an old-fashioned typewriter manned by manic fingers. There was nothing soft or sweet about her, yet there was a spirit of generosity Rory found hard to ignore.
“Thanks for waiting for me.” She could handle Hannah on her own. Felicia had done it. So could she. How hard could it be?
Candace humphed again as she grabbed her black Mary Poppins handbag from the half wall separating the narrow kitchenette from the living room. “She’s a good kid.”
Rory wasn’t sure if she meant Felicia or Hannah. “Have you heard from Felicia?”
“Not a word.”
“Aren’t you worried?”
Candace slid the handles of the canvas knitting bag over her shoulders. “I learned a long time ago to mind my own business.”
“But—”
“Summersfield ain’t no Currier and Ives postcard, honey. It’s all I know, and I don’t want to cause myself any grief. Felicia, well, she made some decisions that are hard to undo. And if you want my advice—although somehow I doubt you’ll take it—I’d wrap that pretty baby up and take her away.”
“I have to find Felicia.” For all her faults her sister had finally done something right.
“It ain’t going to change anything.”
“You think she’s…hurt?” Rory could not bring herself to say dead out loud.
Frowning, Candace rummaged through her bag. “What I think don’t matter.”
“If Felicia’s in danger, I have to help her.”
Out came a purple bear with one ragged ear. Candace handed the plush toy to Rory. “Have you ever thought that maybe it’s too late to help her?”
Rory blinked in surprise. “No, I hadn’t.”
Not really.
At least she’d discounted that dire possibility. She still thought of Felicia as the headstrong kid who had a knack for checking out when the going got tough. She’d run away from school on a regular basis. She’d run from summer camp. She’d run from home. Rory had thought Hannah’s arrival had changed Felicia…and on the trip up to New Hampshire, she’d talked herself into believing this was just another one of Felicia’s disappearing acts that would resolve itself within a few days. Once she worked herself out of the quagmire of her emotions, Felicia usually returned.
Except that Candace’s phone call asking her to come get Hannah had spooked Rory. It was so premeditated an action for a girl like Felicia who lived for the moment. Sebastian’s assertion that Felicia was working undercover for the ATF hadn’t helped. That, too, was out of character. It just didn’t make sense. Felicia would never have done that. Not after what had happened to their parents.
Except maybe for a chance to stay with Hannah.
Rory kneaded at the tension hiking her shoulders to her ears.
Then when Ace—really, what kind of name was that for a grown man?—had brought up his theory that Felicia was hiding, she’d jumped at the saving grace of the probability that she wasn’t too late. Because if something had happened to Felicia, then that long-haired Italian pirate with his show-off muscles was right, and Rory had waited too long to find her courage. And if she’d failed Felicia when Felicia needed her most, Rory wasn’t sure she could live with the guilt.
Felicia was alive. Scared, but alive. Rory had to believe that.
Candace jerked her head toward the kitchenette. “My number’s on the memo board on the fridge. Penny Webster sits for Hannah. She’s right upstairs. Her number’s there, too, if you need her. So’s the number of Hannah’s doctor.”
“Thank you for all you’ve done.” Rory rubbed her arms against a core-deep chill that shivered through her in spite of the warm afternoon sunlight pouring through the bay window.
Candace wrung the doorknob and yanked the door open. “She’d have done the same for me.”
With that, Candace was gone, and Hannah was all hers. Rory slanted a glance at the sleeping baby and gulped. She reached into her tote bag for her laptop. First things first. She needed information on nine-month-old children, and she needed it fast: www.parenting.com. Then she could worry about Ace Lyon and Mike Fletcher and the illegal activities that hid behind the illusion of New England small-town charm in Summersfield.
RORY WAS STRUGGLING with a spoonful of mashed carrots when the roar of a motorcycle peeling around the town common snapped her out of her concentration and Hannah, who was strapped to her high chair, into a wail. Whatever Felicia lacked in proper nutrition for herself, she’d made sure Hannah would not run out of junior meat sticks, vegetables and fruits any time soon. There were enough jars in the cupboard to feed an entire daycare class for a year. Rory had spent the last half hour trying to interest Hannah in chicken sticks, mashed carrots and green beans. Finger eating might encourage dexterity, but it sure didn’t make for a neat meal. Armed with a baby spoon she waved like a baton, Hannah had seemed more interested in decorating Rory’s hair with carrots than eating them.
Until the motorcycle.
What kind of idiot races down a main road where children could be playing? Rory picked up the bawling Hannah and headed for the bay window facing the street.
The black-and-chrome steel monster stopped below. When the bearded Viking looked up, she swallowed hard. Was it too late to douse the lights and pretend no one was home? She recognized him, of course. Felicia had sent pictures. Even in the Christmas family portrait that was supposed to show tight bonds, there was something cold and empty about Mike’s eyes that had her questioning what Felicia saw in him.
Mike shut off the engine and leaned the monster bike on its stand. Hannah’s wail subsided to sniffles, and she promptly mashed her tear-streaked face into Rory’s hair. Had she packed shampoo? Patting Hannah’s diaper-padded rear, Rory kissed the crown of the baby’s head. “It’s okay, little angel. I won’t let him touch you. I don’t care if he is your father.”
Rory’s heart pounded to the rhythm of the heavy boots tromping on the stairs. Wanting to prevent his entry into the apartment, she inched the door open. Night air with an edge of frost swirled around her legs.
“Well, hello there, little girl.” His voice had a certain seductive edge to it—if you were into snakes. He didn’t look at Hannah, but straight at her. It set Rory’s teeth on edge, but she swallowed her sarcastic retort. If she wanted to get information out of him, she could not start on adversarial ground.
His green eyes widened with appreciation as his gaze slid down her body, making her wish for steel armor.
“What’s wrong with her?” Mike asked as Hannah’s tears hiccupped to new heights. His shaggy blond hair brushed his shoulders. His slightly darker beard could use a trim. He wore the standard biker gear of black engineer boots, denim jeans with a chain securing a wallet from his belt to a rear pocket, a black jacket with Mike tooled into the leather, and a gray T-shirt with the words Graberbootie & Pinch printed in darker gray on its front. Bits of various
