Suddenly Married
Loree Lough
SUDDENLY!FINALLY A BRIDETeacher Dara Mackenzie loved kids with all her heart. Trouble was, she seemed destined to remain forever single, forever childless. Until two solemn, motherless tykes in her Sunday school class caught her eye, captured her heart–and dragged her home to meet Daddy!Miraculously, blue-eyed widower Noah Lucas was the kind of man Dara had waited a long, lonely lifetime for. And the harried dad clearly wanted a woman around the house. So, before she knew it, Dara was a bride! But Dara knew that it took more to make a family. Now it was up to Noah to open his heart to Dara's love.Celebrate the joys of parenthood in this series full of unexpected special deliveries!
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#ue65fa94d-6201-564e-ac12-6af269d539bc)
Excerpt (#ufa154d24-6594-5a39-9ffc-da3fbffcac02)
About the Author (#uf1931e7b-fa72-56ce-a271-07fa1a83c204)
Title Page (#u8411dc64-5da6-52c1-8633-872384b9d10f)
Epigraph (#u2174e7df-056c-548b-8a8e-919b919b94ec)
Dedication (#ua8b79d55-5f5c-5b04-9c7d-579b0ffedd82)
Prologue (#uf82f0207-0d3b-5309-acb9-2901d862256e)
Chapter One (#u4938ac7d-b2f5-5c3a-9f8b-94759e5fcc78)
Chapter Two (#u26ee4fd9-5d7f-56a6-8b5b-5ac555e7a124)
Chapter Three (#u37771725-b500-5276-84e0-cbcd7c3ea957)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
From the moment they were born,
Noah’s two children had given his life new meaning. Once they were born, it took little more than a toothless smile to brighten his world. And now they were loving little beings who deserved to be loved right back.
By a woman’s gentle hands.
He’d try to persuade Dara Mackenzie to marry him.
Dara was the woman God intended him to spend the rest of his days with; his prayers had convinced him, and Noah knew it like he knew the earth would continue spinning.
So somehow he had to convince her of that.
For his children’s sake.
And…for his own?
LOREE LOUGH
A full-time writer for more than twelve years, Loree Lough has produced more than two thousand published articles, dozens of short stories—appearing in magazines here and abroad—and novels for children ages eight to twelve. The author of twenty inspirational romances (including the award-winning Pocketful of Love and Emma’s Orphans, and bestsellers like Reluctant Valentine and Miracle on Kismet Hill—all from Barbour Books), she also writes as Cara McCormack and Aleesha Carter. A comedic conference speaker, Loree loves sharing in classroom settings what she’s learned the hard way. And since her daughters, Elice and Valerie, have moved into homes of their own, Loree and husband Larry have been trying to figure out why some folks think the “empty-nest syndrome” is a “bad” thing.…
Suddenly Married
Loree Lough
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for Him.
—Psalms 37:7
To Elice and Valerie, my beloved daughters… and lifelong friends.
Prologue (#ulink_57410cf7-f5dd-555b-a681-45f176213eb1)
“This is ridiculous,” she seethed, slamming the report onto the desk. “I refuse to believe my father could have done such a thing.”
Dara stood so abruptly her chair toppled over behind her. Noah Lucas gave the fallen chair a cursory glance before turning his dark-blue gaze to her. “I’m afraid it’s all right here in black and white.”
Dara uprighted the chair and ran a trembling hand through her hair.“Then…there must be some mistake, because—”
“I’ve been over these files three times. Numbers don’t lie.”
Spoken like a true accountant, she reflected.
Ironically, Dara had been drumming that very lesson into her geometry and algebra students’ heads since she began teaching at Centennial High eight years earlier. Frowning, she looked from the computer readout to the corporation’s checkbook to the year’s worth of her father’s bank statements. Money—great sums of it—had been moved from the company coffers into Jake Mackenzie’s personal account. Hands clasped beneath her chin, Dara paced beside the desk. “Who could have done such a thing?” she wondered aloud. “And why?”
He heaved an exasperated sigh. “I have no idea why the man would do anything so foolish. I mean, surely he realized that sooner or later, he’d be found out.” Shaking his head, he added, “How he managed to get away with it through last tax season is a myster—”
Her pacing came to an abrupt halt beside the desk. “I don’t like what you’re implying, Mr. Lucas.”
He got to his feet, planted both powerful palms flat on her father’s desk. “I’m not implying anything, Miss Mackenzie. My accounting firm was hired by the board of directors to examine…” He smiled patronizingly. “For the sake of protocol, let’s just say we were called in to investigate certain, ah, incongruities in Pinnacle Construction’s books. Lucas and Associates has earned its reputation for being able to solve problems like this.”
“Problems like what?” Agitated, Dara pointed at the paperwork on the desk. “You call that evidence?” She rolled her eyes. “Innuendo and supposition—that’s all you’ve got there. And I—”
His long-lashed blue eyes narrowed to slits. “Innuendo and supposition?” The intended humor in Lucas’s resonant laugh never made it to his eyes. “More than two hundred thousand dollars disappeared in the past eighteen months.” He thumped the printout, then nodded at the bank statements. Sarcasm rang loud in his voice when he added, “And by some strange coincidence, that’s exactly how much was deposited in your father’s savings account.”
Dara opened her mouth to protest, to defend her father’ s good name. But Lucas held up a hand to forestall any attempt at rationalization she might make. “I realize it’s not much consolation,” he said, “considering the ramifications, but I’m as surprised as you are. Jake Mackenzie’s reputation as an honest businessman earned him the respect of his contemporaries up and down the East Coast. Frankly, he’s the last person I would have suspected of stealing from his own partner.”
Gasping, Dara’s eyes widened. “How dare you call my father a…a…” She swallowed, unable to say the word.
“Thief?” Lucas finished. The blond eyebrow rose high on his forehead. “If you have a better explanation for how the funds got from here—” he nodded toward the big blue checkbook “—to there—” he indicated the savings statements “—I’m certainly willing to hear you out.”
No matter how bad things looked—and they looked gloomy indeed—Dara wouldn’t let herself believe her father had had anything to do with the missing money. Perhaps Jake’s secretary had deposited the money into his account by mistake. Or maybe that new comptroller hired a year or so ago wasn’t doing his job properly. It might have been the bank’s error.
The excuses amounted to a weak defense. Dara knew it. At best, those possibilities she’d listed might explain one or two erroneous withdrawals and deposits, but dozens…?
The ugly truth is, there isn’t a good explanation for this mess. But there is an explanation! But she saw no sense in arguing the point, at least not here, not now. The truth will come out in the end, she assured herself, and my father will be cleared of these ludicrous accusations! “So what happens next?” Dara asked, meeting Lucas’s icy stare with one of her own.
She hadn’t expected the look of sincere concern to furrow his handsome brow. Hadn’t expected the broad shoulders to slump as he dropped onto the leather seat of the ancient chair that had once belonged to her grandfather, founder of Pinnacle Construction.
Shaking his head, the accountant steepled both hands beneath his chin. “I expect that’s up to Kurt Turner.”
Kurt Turner! Dara fumed. But that old fool has been trying to get rid of Dad for years. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was the one who deposited all that money into Dad’s account!
It dawned on her just then that all this funds juggling had begun about the time Kurt Turner started talking with Acmic Chemicals. The world-renowned agricultural firm had solicited a bid from Pinnacle Construction, and Turner was to have flown to England to discuss the project…a thirty-million-dollar, twenty-fiveacre industrial complex. At the last minute, family problems kept Turner from attending the meeting. The company’s shaky financial future—and the security of its 106 employees—rested on the outcome of this bid. So, despite the fact that he’d only recently been released from the hospital, Jake Mackenzie insisted on going to England in Turner’s stead.
“I’m beginning to smell a rat.”
Lucas sat forward, folded those big hands on the desktop. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Excuse me?”
“I called you in here to solicit your help, Ms. Mackenzie. I was hoping we could put our heads together, figure out why your father took the money and—”
“He didn’t take it, I tell you!”
Lucas drove a hand through his hair, leaving fingerthick streaks in the blond waves. “Tell me something that gives me reason to believe that.”
Dara sighed and, pointing at the reams of paper on his desk, said, “What can I tell you that you don’t think you know?”
He tugged on one corner of his mustached mouth. “As I was starting to say earlier, I want to help you.”
She frowned. “Why?”
The blue eyes darkened like angry thunderclouds. “You’ll find I’m very thorough, Miss Mackenzie.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, then said in a gentler tone, “Something troubles me about this investigation.”
From the moment they’d said their cool and courteous hellos, Dara sensed Noah Lucas was like a bounty hunter, determined to bring in his man. The look of genuine concern, the slight tremor in his deep voice, forced her to reconsider her first impression of him.
“Well,” she began, “I’ve suspected for some time that Kurt Turner was out to get control of the company.”
“But I thought—”
“That because my father made him a partner, they were best friends.” She nodded grimly. “That’s what everyone thought. The truth was, Dad brought Mr. Turner into the business when it looked as though he might lose everything—his contracting firm, his house, his wife.” Her forefingers drew quotation marks in the air. “‘If we put our talents together,’ Dad said, ‘we can double our income.’” She sighed. “He often remarked that Kurt Turner had blueprint ink for blood, whereas Dad was a natural-born salesman.”
“Apparently, he was right.”
“For a while. But Dad had one major flaw. He paid little if any attention to things like bank statements and tax returns—which is how Pinnacle got into money trouble in the first place.”
“How long were they in, ah, ‘trouble’?”
“Dad never wanted me involved in the business. But from the little he said, I gathered they’d been having money problems for the past five years or so.”
“So the deal with Acmic Chemicals would have saved their bacon.”
“I’ll say! A thirty-million-dollar industrial complex on twenty-five acres would have put them right back on the map.”
“But…”
“But Mr. Turner had family problems, or so he said, and couldn’t go to England to seal the deal. Dad insisted on going, even though he’d just gotten out of the hospital.”
“Hospital? What was wrong with him?”
“Heart attack.” Dara hadn’t discussed it, not even once, since that day when her father had sat where Noah Lucas was sitting now. “I did my level best to talk him out of that trip, but he said he had to go, said he owed it to his employees to try to save Pinnacle.”
Lucas nodded.
“I think Kurt Turner knew how things would turn out if he let Dad go abroad to cut that deal. What better way to get rid of the competition than to publicly discredit him?”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m not following you.”
“The trip to England was one of those ‘good news, bad news’ stories. The Acmic Chemicals people loved him, and even though they hadn’t made the low bid, Pinnacle won the contract…and the stress of cutting the deal cost Dad his life.”
He heaved a deep sigh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
Dara would have preferred that in place of the sympathetic, caring tone, he’d continued behaving like the coldhearted shark she’d thought him to be in the first place. At least then she wouldn’t be fighting tears right now.
She hadn’t let self-pity dictate her actions to this point, and she refused to allow it to control her emotions now. Dara looked around the office, forced herself to see the place she’d so often visited over the years. Dozens of times since the funeral, she’d tried to talk herself into coming here, packing up her father’s personal belongings and bringing them home. But there had always seemed to be a valid reason to put it off: weeds in the flower beds; students’ papers to grade; a trip to the vet with her cat, Lucy…
Everything looked exactly as he’d left it—a fact that surprised her, since she’d expected Kurt Turner would have assigned the office to someone else by now—except for the plaque on the wall behind his desk: In Memory of Jake Mackenzie, it read, Friend and Father to Us All. Despite her bravado, tears of pride stung her eyes as she acknowledged that he’d earned the affection and respect of those men and women who’d commissioned the trophy.
Kurt Turner may well be full owner of Pinnacle Construction now, but Mackenzie blood and sweat had built it. If she had to beg, borrow and spend every red cent she’d saved over the years, she’d replace that missing money.
And if it takes the rest of my days, I intend to clear his good name!
“I wish I could share your confidence, Miss Mackenzie, but it looks as though we have a clear case of embezzlement.”
Dara hadn’t realized she’d spoken her vow aloud, a fact that only served to increase her distress. She wanted to tell Lucas to get out, right this instant, before he defiled her father’s memory any further. Don’t shoot the messenger, she reminded herself, citing the age-old proverb; Kurt Turner was the enemy, not Noah Lucas.
He stood, an action that Dara supposed was his way of saying their meeting had ended.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Miss Mackenzie. I only wish we’d arrived at a more satisfactory outcome.” He extended his hand. “The only thing left for me to do is find out what he did with all that money.”
Did he really expect her to shake his hand, after he’d said something like that? Fury had Dara gripping the arms of the chair with such force that her knuckles ached. Rising slowly, she faced Lucas head-on. “I realize you have a job to do, Mr. Lucas,” she said, retrieving her coat and purse from the chair beside hers, “but so do I.” She stopped just short of the door and said over her shoulder, “Since we’ll be at loggerheads, you’ll forgive me if I don’t wish you luck.”
Chapter One (#ulink_92c257b0-92b9-58d3-b75d-419fcce760cc)
The moment she got home from her meeting with Noah Lucas, Dara phoned the pastor’s office. “If no one has volunteered to take over Naomi King’s Sunday-school class,” she said, “I’ll be happy to do it.”
“Wonderful!” the preacher thundered into her ear. “Stop by the church this evening, and I’ll see that you get the materials you’ll need.”
A little of Scarlett O’Hara’s mind-set, she thought, driving to the church, would go a long way in keeping her mind off her problems. She’d worry about the accusations against her father tomorrow. Meanwhile, in the battered cardboard box the pastor had handed her, Dara found keys that would unlock the church basement, the office and the classrooms. The student roster and Naomi’s lesson plans were inside, as well, along with a teacher’s manual that complemented the workbooks each student had been issued.
She’d taught Sunday school before, but not since her father’s death. Dara’s last class had been a spirited group of junior-high kids whose pointed questions and heartfelt opinions had left her exhausted yet exhilarated at the end of every class.
Teaching this class of first and second graders would be especially challenging, for Dara would, in effect, be setting down a foundation upon which they would hopefully build a lifetime of spiritual beliefs. In her mind, it was the answer to two prayers: the work involved with preparing for class would keep her from thinking about Noah Lucas’s investigation and the teaching itself would fulfill her personal belief that every parishioner should do his or her share to help the church.
She arrived half an hour earlier than necessary and organized the materials she’d use for today’s lesson. Then, sitting at the small wooden desk near the windows, Dara prayed: Father, be with me as I help these youngsters learn about Your will and Your way. Open my mind and my heart to Your word and keep me alert so I’ll not miss even one opportunity to glorify You in their eyes. Amen.
Her intent had been to review her lesson plan until the children arrived. To the casual observer, it would appear she was doing exactly that. But church and Sunday school were the furthest things from her mind as she paged through the teacher’s manual on her desk. Rather, Noah Lucas occupied her thoughts. Know Thine Enemy hadn’t become a cliché because it was bad advice, she’d told herself. And during the past week, she’d made it her business to learn as much as possible about the man who had seemed determined to prove her father had been a thief. Dara had asked anyone who might have come into contact with Noah why he’d come to Baltimore, if he was married, whether he had children—surely a good-looking man like that was married.
Dara lurched with surprise when the fresh-faced sixand seven-year-olds, dressed in their Sunday finest, filed into the room, giggling and chattering as they found places to sit. The moment she saw the wide-eyed innocent faces she knew volunteering to teach this class had been the right thing to do.
There was Pete Chapman and little Tina Nelson; Donny Murphy and Marie Latrell. She’d gone to school with Sammy O’Dell’s father, played softball with Lisa Johnston’s mother. She knew every child in the room…
Except for two.
Angie and Bobby Lucas.
Alice, the pastor’s secretary, escorted the children in and in a discreet tone filled Dara in on their background. The Lucas children had come to town a year or so ago when their widowed father decided to make Columbia, Maryland, the headquarters for his CPA and financial services firm. When he’d registered as a parishioner, Noah Lucas had told Alice he hoped being based in the Baltimore-Washington corridor would triple his clientele within two years. Dara knew enough about the area to believe he could accomplish his goal if he attacked everything the way he’d sunk his teeth into that nasty matter at Pinnacle.
She watched his children carefully. The boy, blond, blue eyed, was the spitting image of his father. Would he be tall and muscular someday? With a thick burnished mustache and a barrel chest?
Dara turned her attention to Noah Lucas’s daughter. His wife must have been a dark-haired, dark-eyed, delicate beauty, if her little girl was any indicator.
What must it be like, Dara wondered, growing up without a mother? She’d been twenty-seven when her own mother had died two years ago, and still Dara missed the maternal love that had flowed steadily and easily from parent to child. But to be so small, so young and vulnerable, when death stole a beloved parent…Dara’s heart ached for these two motherless children.
They sat side by side, front and center, and folded their hands on the desktops. They were by far the bestdressed, most well-behaved children in the classroom. But there was something about them that gave Dara an uneasy feeling. Was it their tight-lipped, somber-eyed expressions? Or the way they stared straight ahead, as silent as little statues? Looks as though a serious nature runs in the family, she thought, frowning as she recalled their father’s grim, taut posture.
“Okay, kids,” she called, clapping to get the class’s attention. “Let’s settle down and get to work.”
“Where’s Mrs. King?” Marie wanted to know.
Dara smiled as a moment of warm wishfulness fluttered inside her. If only someone could be making this announcement about me.…“Mrs. King’s baby was born last Sunday afternoon.”
“After Sunday school?”
“That’s right. She went straight to the hospital from here.”
“Is she all right?” Lisa asked.
“She’s fine, just fine,” Dara assured her.
“Boy or girl?” Pete demanded, grinning mischievously. “A boy, I hope—we already got too many girls in this town!”
The boys snickered and the girls groaned in response to his commentary, while Dara smiled fondly. “I hate to disappoint you, Pete, but the baby is a girl.”
Tina raised her hand. “Have they named her yet?”
“As a matter of fact, they’re going to call her Sarah. Sarah Naomi King.”
“Yuck,” Pete grumped. “What’d they go an’ give her such a sissy name for?”
“Hush,” Tina scolded, frowning. “Sarah isn’t a sissy name. It’s beautiful.” One hand on her hip, she bobbed her head back and forth. “It’s from the Bible,” she singsonged, “isn’t it, Miss Mackenzie?”
“That’s right.…Now, can anyone tell me anything about the biblical Sarah?”
“She was Isaac’s mother,” Bobby Lucas volunteered.
“But before she was Sarah,” his elder sister injected, “her name was Sarai.”
“What did she go and change her name for,” Pete teased, “if it was so beautiful?”
“Because,” Angie said, lifting her chin, “God told her husband to change it.”
She seemed so pleased and proud to possess knowledge the other children did not have. Was the behavior something her father had encouraged? Or had his straitlaced personality sent Angie the message that this demeanor was required if she hoped to gain his approval?
“Everyone said Abraham was too old and feeble to have more children,” the girl continued, “but he believed he could, and because of his faith, God gave him a child,” Dara reported in a somber, quiet voice.
These were not ordinary children, Dara decided. Did Bobby play with trucks? Did Angie and her dollies have tea parties? Did they splash in their tub, dunk cookies in their milk and make snow angels? Something told her they did not. Dara could almost picture them sitting inside, noses burrowed in the pages of some edifying book, peeking up only now and again to watch the fun going on outside.
Of course youngsters should pray and read the Word, she acknowledged. They should respect their elders and do their chores and work hard in school. But they should never be made to forget that Jesus loved the little children, because of the innocent playfulness born into them! What kind of parent was Noah Lucas that he had seemingly discouraged his son and daughter from doing what should come naturally to all kids—enjoying life!
“When is Mrs. King coming back?” Tina interrupted.
Dara sent a quick prayer of thanks heavenward for the question that diverted her from her thoughts. “Well, she’s so excited about being a new mommy I don’t think even Mrs. King knows the answer to that question.”
“Are you going to be our teacher?”
She inspected the wide-eyed, expectant faces of her students. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
Silence blanketed the classroom. “Good,” Pete muttered to the boy behind him, “‘cause she’s really pretty.”
Dara clasped her hands. “Now then, I had intended to talk about the Golden Rule today. Who knows what the Golden Rule is?”
“Jesus said, ‘Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you,’” Angie offered.
“Very good,” Dara said. “Can anyone tell me what that means?”
“Don’t do stuff to other people that you wouldn’t want ‘em doin’ to you?” Pete chanced.
“Absolutely! Someone give me an example.”
The children thought about that for a moment. Then Donny shouted out, “Oooh-oooh! I know, I know! Like…if I don’t want my sister hogging the swing, I shouldn’t hog it, either.”
“And if I wouldn’t like my brother changing the channel in the middle of a show I’m watching,” Lisa added, “I shouldn’t do it to him.”
Dara walked to the supply cabinet and swung open the doors. “That’s right!” She stood in front of shelves that housed colorful stacks of construction paper, bluntedged scissors, bottles of glue and boxes of crayons. “But it can also mean doing good things.”
“Like what?” Marie asked.
“Like helping people finish chores so they can get outside and play sooner, or sharing the last slice of chocolate cake.” Wiggling her eyebrows, she winked and gestured toward the cupboard. “Or making greeting cards that will let Mrs. King know how happy we are that she and Mr. King finally got that baby they’ve been praying for.”
Giggling and squealing with glee, the first and second graders grabbed materials from the cupboard and began working on their cards.
“How do you spell congratulations?” Tina wanted to know.
Dara was about to print the word on the chalkboard when Bobby Lucas said, “C-o-n-g-r-a-t-u-l-a-t-i-o-n-s.”
“Not so fast,” Pete complained.
How many first graders could even read the word? Dara wondered as Bobby spelled it again. It was beginning to look like Noah Lucas had the discipline part of fathering down pat. But what about the loving part? she asked herself.
“Thanks, Bob-oh,” Pete said, grinning. “How’d you get so smart?”
Dara thought she saw the hint of a smile tug at the comers of Bobby’s mouth when he shrugged.
“His name isn’t Bob-oh,” Angie corrected. “It’s Bobby, which is short for Robert.”
“You mean robber,” Pete stuck in. “Your brother stole my pencil.”
“Didn’t steal it,” Bobby defended. “I only borrowed it” He handed it back to Pete, then crossed both arms over his chest.
“‘Thou shalt not steal,’” Pete teased, wagging a chubby finger at his classmate.
The statement made Dara think of her father. Heart pounding, she looked around the class, saw that Angie was looking directly at her. For an instant, Dara wondered if the little girl had read her thoughts, for her understanding expression seemed far too old and wise for one so young. But she said, “My mother called him Bobby, right up to the day she died.”
Dara wanted to wrap her in a hug—something she suspected her father didn’t do nearly often enough—but Angie had already turned her attention back to the artwork. She glanced at Angie’s younger brother, who shrugged again and in an equally matter-of-fact voice announced, “Don’t pay any attention to her. She says things like that all the time.” He raised one blond brow, looking amazingly like his father when he did. “Father says she does it to shock people.”
Father says? Dara forced a laugh and ruffled Bobby’s honey-blond hair. “Well,” she whispered, “it works. I’m shocked!”
One corner of his mouth lifted in a wry grin. “Pete’s right.”
“About what?”
The smile that lit his face was contagious, and for a moment, she almost forgot there were a dozen other children around her.
“You’re very pretty.”
Angie, who had been hunched over Mrs. King’s card, sat up straight and gave Dara a once-over. “Yes, yes,” she agreed. “You are rather pretty.” Furrowing her brow, she added, “Are you married?”
The enrollment forms clearly stated that Bobby Lucas was six years old and Angie was seven. Because they’d been born in the same calendar year—Angie in January, Bobby in December—the children had been in the same grade since preschool. But surely there had been a clerical error, Dara thought, a typo on their registration forms, because neither child behaved even remotely like first graders.
“Father says ladies can sometimes be sensitive to that question. Since you didn’t answer, it must mean you aren’t married.” Angie tilted her head slightly, as if considering all the possibilities. “Have you ever been married? I mean, you’re not divorced or anything, are you, because Father says divorce is a sin.”
Why would his children even be asking such a thing, let alone asking it frequently enough to require adult discussion on the subject? Dara could answer Angie’s questions—questions that would not have seemed overly personal or inappropriate if they hadn’t been asked in that eerily controlled voice—or she could divert the child’s attention. Her father may choose to speak to her like a miniature adult, Dara thought, frowning slightly, but here in my classroom, she’ll be treated like a seven-year-old!
“The card you’re making for Mrs. King is lovely,” she said in an upbeat, friendly voice. “I especially like the pretty house you’ve drawn there.”
“It’s like the one we lived in up in Pennsylvania, when my mother was alive.” She tucked in one comer of her mouth. “It was a very nice house.”
Angie took a deep breath, then said, “It happened when I was four.” She put the red crayon she’d been using back into the box, and withdrew a blue one. “It was cancer, you know, the kind that eats your blood.”
“Leukemia,” Bobby said. But unlike his sister’s nonchalant tone, the boy’s voice trembled slightly.
“Yes. Leukemia,” Angie agreed. “Father says we should try not to think about it, but when we do, we should never be sad because Mother is with Jesus in heaven, where she’ll never hurt ever again.”
It had been nearly a decade since Dara had taken the psychology courses that helped round out her education major, but Dara recognized repression when she saw—and heard—it. And though she’d been a full-grown adult when her own mother died two years earlier and lost her father just months ago, she understood the importance of mourning openly and honestly. Dara didn’t know how or why a loving father would talk his children out of grieving for their mother.
And she understood it on a completely different level: hadn’t she repressed her fears that her father might have stolen Pinnacle’s money?
She wouldn’t even suspect it, if it hadn’t been for Noah Lucas! It wasn’t hard to believe he could do such a coldhearted thing. Dara’s eyes and lips narrowed with anger toward the man who, without ever having met her father, had chosen to believe the row of numbers that said Jake was a thief rather than the daughter who believed in his innocence. That same harsh and judgmental behavior had his own flesh and blood moving through life like windup toys.
Dara had prayed before class began that the Lord would show her what to do, tell her what to say, to help her teach these children His word. These two, especially, needed to hear about His loving mercy now.
Dara slid an arm around the girl’s shoulders. “Oh, sweetie,” she said, leaning her forehead against Angie’s, “of course your mommy is in heaven with God and all His angels.” She pressed a soft kiss to the child’s temple. “But it’s okay to miss her sometimes.…”
Angie looked up from her picture and stared deep into Dara’s eyes. For a second there, Angie was every bit a seven-year-old girl as her lower lip trembled slightly and a flicker of sadness gleamed in her big dark eyes. Dara felt the fragile shoulders relax, as though a heavy burden had been lifted from them.
But then Angie blinked.
And just that fast, the frosty restraint was back, and she became a pint-size version of a full-grown adult again. It was more than a little frightening to have witnessed the transformation, and Dara shivered involuntarily, because she doubted if she could name one adult who was so self-contained.
Well, that wasn’t true. She could name one.…
“Can I get a drink of water?” Tina asked.
“Sure,” Dara said, smiling gently.
“Would you like to see the card I made for Mrs. King?” Pete wanted to know. “I drew baby Sarah on it.”
“I’ll be right there.” Reluctantly, Dara drew away from Angie. If the child noticed, she gave no clue. God bless her, Dara prayed.
Something told her that in the months ahead, she’d be petitioning the Lord often on behalf of the Lucas children.
“Sorry, Dara,” the principal said. “I’ve pulled every string I could get my fat little fingers on. There’s just no money left in the budget for you.”
Budget cuts, or had someone on the board heard that her father had been accused of embezzlement and decided it wasn’t good press to have a teacher like that working for the Howard County school system?
She took a deep breath. Stop assuming the worst, Dara, she scolded herself. It’s your own fault, after all, for asking to be assigned a job in your own district. If she’d taken the teaching job at Wilde Lake instead of Centennial High, she wouldn’t be low man on the totem pole now.
“It isn’t your fault, John,” she said, smiling halfheartedly.
“Who’d-a thunk seniority could be an ugly thing?”
“Better watch it,” she warned, wagging a finger under his nose. “If the kids hear you breaking the rules of grammar that way, they’ll—”
“They’ll what?” he teased. “Most of ‘em have been abusing the King’s English since right after they learned to say ‘Dada’!”
Dara and her boss laughed for a moment, until the seriousness of the situation shrouded his cramped, crowded office.
“So when do I have to clear out my desk?”
Wincing, the principal sighed. “Not till the semester ends in February. That’ll give you plenty of time to send your résumé around.”
It gave her four months, give or take a week. Dara sighed, staring out the window, where Old Glory popped and snapped in the brisk winter wind. She’d sat right here as a Centennial student when she’d served as an office aide to Mr. John Westfall, and again nearly nine years ago when he’d interviewed her to fill the open math teacher slot. There were other teaching positions available here in Howard County, and more than likely, she’d accept one. But it wouldn’t be the same, because those schools wouldn’t feel like home.
“Should I put in a good word for you over at River Hill?” Westfall asked, standing. “I hear there’s going to be an opening there.”
“Sure,” Dara said, getting to her feet. “That’d be great.”
“I hate to lose you, Dara. And so will the kids.”
He extended his hand; she clasped it gratefully.
“It’s gonna be like sending one of my own daughters off into—”
“Hush,” she said, smiling sadly, “or you’re going to make me cry.”
“Don’t want to start up any waterworks, now do we?”
Dara focused on their hands. He’d been jerking her arm up and down like a pump handle. “I’ve heard of trying to get blood from a turnip,” she teased, “but I don’t think this is the way you go about it.”
Chuckling, Westfall let go of her hand, gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “If there’s anything I can do,” he said softly, “anything, you just ask, you hear?”
“Thanks,” she said, heading for the door. “I will.”
“You’ll come see me once in a while, won’t you? Let me know how you’re doing?”
Another nod, one hand on the doorknob. “Now, let me leave before I start blubbering all over this gorgeous green-and-orange carpet of yours!”
She closed his office door. Could things get any worse? she wondered. The second anniversary of her mother’s death was just around the corner; in a week, her father would have been gone six months. Then there was the news about his so-called embezzlement. And now she was out of a job. If you had any sense, she said to herself, you’d make reservations and take that cruise you’ve been saving up for.
Immediately, she shook her head. No telling what Noah Lucas might do on Kurt Turner’s behalf while you’re off in the sunny Caribbean worrying yourself silly.
The janitor flung open the door, rolled his oversize metal trash can inside. As he banged and clanged down the hall, a huge gust of wind whipped in behind him, blowing the papers from Dara’s hands and scattering them across the floor. Some fluttered out the door; others skidded under lockers. “That cruise is gone with the wind, too,” she muttered as she gathered the papers that hadn’t escaped.
Look at the bright side, she told herself. Now you have two projects to distract you from the Pinnacle mess—Sunday school and job hunting!
As she headed for her cubicle in the teachers’ lounge, something told her neither would be a very good diversion.…
* * *
The weather bureau was predicting snow. Lots of it. But it wasn’t supposed to start until late afternoon, which meant Sunday services and Dara’s class would take place as scheduled. If TV meteorologist Norm Lewis was right, there’d be no school tomorrow, and if her students had heard his report, they’d be too busy looking out the windows to learn much of anything this morning.
It was a good chance to put Naomi King’s advice to the test: “You can’t teach the little ones with ordinary lessons. If you follow the teacher’s manual, they’ll be bored and restless.” The art project had worked quite well last week. Why not incorporate more of the same into this Sunday’s lesson?
She’d purchased five jars of peanut butter, a bottle of vanilla, ten boxes of confectioners’ sugar, two rolls of waxed paper, a monumental stack of foam bowls, three rolls of paper towels and a huge can of crushed peanuts at the grocery store yesterday. Dara could hear in their puzzled voices that she’d piqued her students’ curiosity when she called each last evening and asked that they bring one of their fathers’ old shirts to class, but it was nothing compared with the inquisitive looks on their faces when they marched into the room and saw the supplies, standing in a tidy row on her desk.
“I’ll answer all your questions as soon as we’ve said our opening prayer,” she promised. “Who’d like to do the honor?”
At first, Dara thought she might have to do it herself, as she had last week. Then one tiny hand slid hesitantly into the air.
“Thank you for volunteering, Bobby,” she told him. “Now, let’s all close our eyes and bow our heads.”
The children immediately complied.
“Go ahead, Bobby.”
“Dear Lord,” he began in a sweet, angelic voice, “we thank You for getting us here safely. God bless Miss Mackenzie for being our teacher…” He hesitated for a moment before concluding. “And for bringing all the ingredients to make peanut butter balls. Amen.”
“Peanut butter balls. What’re peanut butter balls?”
The question echoed around the room a dozen times before Angie said, “They’re a no-bake dessert that’s very high in fat and—”
“But they’re fun to make and dee-licious!” Bobby tacked on.
“How do you know ‘bout peanut butter balls?” Pete asked.
“Our mother taught us to make them,” was Angie’s straightforward reply.
Dara clapped her hands. “All right, class, let’s get our hands washed so we can dig in.”
In a matter of minutes, they were back in their seats, draped in their fathers’ baggy, cast-off shirts. “We’re going to learn something about creation today,” she said, going from desk to desk, rolling up sleeves. And handing each student a sheet of waxed paper, she added, “God took special ingredients, mixed them and made the world.”
As Dara gave the children their own disposable bowls, she began quoting Genesis in words these first graders would understand. To emphasize the lesson, she doled out peanut butter and sugar, a drop of vanilla, and invited the kids to mix them thoroughly…with their bare hands. When they’d made dough of the mixture, she instructed them to form gumdrop-size balls from it, then instructed them to roll their peanut butter balls in the crushed nuts.
Lisa licked the mixture off her fingers. “Mmm,” she said. “That was good work.”
“And messy work,” Tina agreed.
“But now we can enjoy—and share—what we’ve made,” Dara told them.
“Oh, I get it!” Pete shouted. “Like God enjoyed the world, and shared it with Adam and Eve once he got done makin’ it!”
“Once he had finished it,” Angie corrected, sighing deeply.
“Is God gonna eat the world?” Donny teased, popping a peanut butter ball into his mouth.
“‘Course not, stupid. It’s too big to fit in His mouth,” Pete said around a mouthful of his own sticky treat.
“It isn’t polite to call people ‘stupid,’” Angie scolded.
Dara had spent only two weeks with the class, but her students had spent three months with Angie. They rolled their eyes at her admonition.
Angie could pretend to be older and wiser than the rest of the kids in class, but Dara had seen her eyes light up at the prospect of digging her fingers into the gooey mess that would become the peanut butter balls. And despite her best attempts to appear above it all, her “cookies” were just as lopsided as everyone else’s.
The children left class, chattering happily—around mouthfuls of the treat they’d made with their own two hands—about what they’d do once the snow started. Dara went about the business of cleaning up what Donny had referred to as “Our Genesis Mess.”
Humming, she dropped sticky bowls and wrinkled sheets of waxed paper into the wastebasket, then began packing up the leftover ingredients and paper products. Dara had but one regret about teaching this class: not one of the students was her son or daughter. She loved everything about children—from cradle to cap and gown—their effervescent exuberance to their brighteyed view of the world was contagious. Someday, she hoped, the Lord would see fit to answer her prayer and send a good Christian man into her life.
One like Dad, she thought, gritting her teeth with grim determination. She would prove he hadn’t committed that awful crime if it was the last thing she ever did!
He’d earned her faith in him, her loyalty, because he’d been a wonderful father, a wonderful husband! Dara recalled how well he’d always taken care of her mother, how much more devoted and compassionate he became when she got sick. Dara wanted a love like that, a man like that, with whom she could build a home, a family, a future—
“May I have a word with you, Miss Mackenzie?”
The suddenness of the deep baritone startled her, and Dara dropped the paper bag she’d been holding.
“Sorry,” he said, a crooked smile slanting his tawny mustache, “didn’t mean to frighten you.”
She stooped to retrieve the paper towels and foam bowls that had rolled under her desk. “No problem. I just didn’t see you there, that’s all.” Dara jammed the articles back into the bag, stood it near the door. “Now then,” she said, dusting her hands in front of her, “what can I do for you, Mr. Lucas?”
He didn’t answer right away, a fact that gave Dara an overall uneasy feeling. She was about to ask what he was looking at when he said, “I’d like to thank you.”
“Thank me?” His intense scrutiny had unnerved her, and a jittery giggle popped from her lips. “Whatever for?”
“For attempting to comfort my daughter last week. Bobby told me what you said…and did.”
Dara frowned, trying to remember specifically what he might be referring to. The hug? That little peck on the temple? She shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t—”
“I’m the one who’s afraid, Miss Mackenzie,” he interrupted. “Since my wife passed away, the children haven’t had much in the way of female nurturing. I try,” he added, shoulders up and palms extended, “but I make a better dad than a mom.”
Dara took note of his broad shoulders, his muscular legs, the big fingers that repeatedly combed through his shining blond hair. I’ll say, she thought, grinning inwardly. “Well, no one expects you to be a superhero,” she said, “least of all, Bobby and Angie.”
“Maybe not,” he said in a quiet voice, “but they deserve the best, and I’m a far cry from it.”
This was a side of Noah Lucas that Dara never would have guessed existed.
“I just wanted to thank you is all, for your kindness.”
Coming from anyone else, the words would have been taken at face value, and she would have said, “Just doin’ my job.” But from a man like Noah Lucas—reserved, private, stoic—they took on a whole new meaning, because Dara had a feeling he didn’t make a practice of saying such things.
“You can be very proud of Bobby and Angie,” she admitted. “They are two of the best-behaved children I’ve ever met” Grinning, she held a finger in the air to add, “And I’ll have you know this isn’t my first encounter with children.”
“So I’ve heard.”
So he had checked her out! The question was, had he done it because of the funny-money business down at Pinnacle? Or because she’d be spending an hour each week with his precious children? It had to be one or the other, because it was a sure bet he wasn’t interested in her as a woman, Dara thought. More than likely, he believed that adage that the acorn didn’t fall far from the tree, and intended to keep a very close eye on her for the duration of the Sunday-school class.
People are not what they appear to be.
If her father had said it once, he’d said it a hundred times. Where Noah Lucas was concerned, the statement seemed more prophetic than ever.
Had she misjudged him when she’d jumped to the conclusion that he was cold and heartless? Had she been wrong when she’d assumed Bobby and Angie behaved the way they did because he encouraged it?
“What was that, ah, that stuff they were eating when they walked out of here?” he asked, interrupting her reverie.
“Peanut butter balls.”
“You taught them to make—”
She gave a proud nod. “Yup.”
“How did you know it was safe?”
Dara tucked in one corner of her mouth. “Safe?”
“When I was a boy, I knew a girl who was allergic to peanuts. One whiff of anything made from them and she’d go into anaphylactic shock. More than once, she was carted off to the hospital in an ambulance, fighting for her life.” He raised a brow. “I admire the extra effort it took on your part to ensure none of your students would have such a reaction.”
Was he…was he smirking?
Well, that sure isn’t a smile on his face!
Noah Lucas had her dead to rights, and he knew it. She had made no such “check” to find out if any of the children might be allergic to peanuts, and the shame of it made her cheeks hot. It had been only by the grace of God that none of her first graders was allergic to peanuts. Later, she’d say a heartfelt prayer of thanks for the Almighty’s protection. Right now, all Dara wanted to do was get rid of Noah Lucas.
She’d been right about him after all. He was a smug, patronizing know-it-all. And more than likely, he had been responsible for the way his children behaved. “If there’s nothing else, Mr. Lucas,” she said, clipping her words, “I have…I have a very busy day ahead of me.”
“Of course. Forgive me. It was never my intention to make you late for—” the smirk became a grin “—for your very busy day.”
Somehow, he knew full well that she had no plans for the rest of the day. But how could he have known? Because he’s researched you, that’s how, she reminded herself. She could hardly blame him; Dara had probed into his background, too. Straightening her back, she tilted her head. “‘Know thine enemy,’ eh, Mr. Lucas?”
That seemed to wipe the pompous look from his face!
“I’m sorry?”
Dara had no idea why the confusion that suddenly wrinkled his brow would make her feel the need to comfort and console him. But it did. Sighing with vexation, she put her back to him, pretending to be busy gathering her teacher’s manual, her purse.
Lucas relieved her of the coat, held it out and waited for her to shrug into it. Funny, she thought, but I don’t remember it feeling this heavy befo—Then she realized it had been his hands, resting on her shoulders, that had caused the added weight. Dara wondered how the touch of a man who had riled her temper in her father’s office, who had further fueled her fury by pointing out that her inattentiveness might well have endangered an innocent child, would feel so comforting, so reassuring, so right.
Because, she decided, turning suddenly to face him, you’re losing your mind. Nothing short of insanity, she believed, could explain why such a feeling would come over her.
“Angie and Bobby are waiting in the hall.”
She raised a brow, as if to say, “What does that have to do with me?”
“They have something to ask you,” Lucas said.
Dara glanced toward the door, and saw the children standing side by side. Lucas waved them in. “Go ahead,” he encouraged, “you can ask her now.”
Bobby took a half step forward. “Would you do us the honor of joining us for dinner?”
Chapter Two (#ulink_0d898474-ed8f-50a5-a81f-264e761e30fd)
Noah watched her face as a myriad of emotions—confusion, surprise, delight—flickered over her lovely features.
“Father is making lasagna,” Bobby announced, nodding and grinning.
It was apparent that Noah’s son wanted her to say yes every bit as much as he did.
Smiling, Dara lay a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “My goodness! I don’t know what to say.”
“If you’re busy,” Angie said, “say no. If you’re not…” The child held out her hands and lifted her shoulders.
Laughing softly, Dara combed her fingers through Angie’s dark curls. Noah couldn’t help but notice the way his little girl’s too-old stare faded under Dara’s tender touch. The children needed a woman like this…had been needing someone like Dara for nearly four years now.
The idea had begun to formulate last Sunday, when Bobby told him how Dara had hugged Angie in Sunday-school class and called her “sweetie” and referred to Francine as “Mommy.” Since his wife’s death, Noah had felt like a bumbling, stumbling mess when it came to providing affection. Oh, he doled out the occasional hug and kiss and greedily ate them up when the children offered them, but soft touches—like hair tousling and kisses—had not been a spontaneous part of his personality.
He could have blamed it on the fact that he’d been raised in an institutional setting with hundreds of parentless children just like him. He could have said it was because men weren’t born with instinctive nurturing tendencies.
But neither was true, and Noah knew it.
The only person in the world he’d felt free to be completely open and honest with had been Francine. She’d seen the vulnerable, needy side of him—and had loved him in spite of it.
“I know you,” she’d said days before her death. “You’ll stick your nose in a ledger book and try to hide from the world.” And grabbing a fistful of his shirt, she’d pulled him nearer with a strength that belied her condition. “The children will need you more than ever after I’m gone,” she’d said. “Promise me you’ll find a good woman who will be there for them. Someone who will make sure they get the guidance and discipline they need to become respectable citizens and obedient followers.” She’d shaken a maternal finger under his nose to add, “She’ll have to be a strongwilled woman who isn’t afraid to speak her mind. You’ll look for a woman like that, won’t you, after I’m gone?”
Of course he’d promised. How could he have denied her at a time like that? It had been an easy enough vow to take; living up to it, he soon discovered, was what had required constant and serious effort.
Because he loved Angie and Bobby more than life itself. They were more than extensions of Francine and him, the children were proof of his love for her and hers for him. That love turned out to be a double-edged sword, for every time he looked into their sweet, angelic faces, he was reminded of that love, and missed it all the more.
They were such well-behaved children—everyone said so—never talking out of turn, always tidy and eager to please. In truth, Noah had no idea why they rarely cried or complained, why they never roughhoused like other children. He’d never asked perfection from them…
Had he?
So it was the most natural thing in the world, he decided, when Bobby told him how Dara had mothered Angie. Was it any surprise that the idea had begun to formulate?
“If you’re busy,” Angie was saying, “say no.” If not, his daughter’s dainty shrug implied, what else was there to say?
Dara met Noah’s eyes, and the questions there made it clear she wasn’t certain he’d approved the invitation.
“I make a mean Caesar salad,” he prompted, “if I do say so myself.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to make a nice salad?” Angie asked, grinning.
“Nice is always better than mean,” Dara teased, winking.
“Does that mean you’re coming to dinner?” Bobby wanted to know.
Dara licked her lips. Swallowed. He could almost see the wheels grinding in her head as she considered all the reasons she should say no. Then she focused a dark-eyed, loving gaze on his children, and he saw the indecision and apprehension disappear. In place of her wary smile there was a warm grin.
“I’ll come,” she told them, “but on one condition only.”
Angie and Bobby probably didn’t even realize they’d taken a step forward. Noah had felt the pull, too, but they were children, without a lifetime of restraint and self-control under their belts.
“What?” they asked.
“That you’ll let me bring dessert.”
The children exchanged a glance before facing her again. What happened next convinced Noah he’d made the right decision, that God had planted the idea in his head and would continue guiding his actions.
“Well, okay,” Bobby began, slowly, quietly. Blue eyes alight with mischief, he added, “So long as it isn’t…”
A moment of silence ticked by before Angie covered her mouth with both hands and giggled. He couldn’t remember the last time his little girl had acted like a little girl. The sight touched him so much that Noah had to swallow to keep tears of gratitude at bay.
“Peanut butter balls!” she shouted through her fingers.
Dara got onto her knees, making herself child size, and held out her arms to them. The children melted against her like butter on a hot biscuit. That quickly, she’d worked her enchantment on them. “No peanut butter balls,” she promised, smiling. “Now, tell me—what’s your favorite dessert?”
“Brownies!” said Bobby.
“Chocolate cake!” Angie insisted.
Standing, Dara turned to Noah. “What time is dinner?” She spoke with the precise diction of a TV news anchor.
“Five o’clock?”
When she nodded, her shining reddish brown curls bounced. “Is your place easy to find?”
He never went anywhere without his trusty pen and pencil. Can’t tell when you might need to work out a problem, he’d found. He flipped open the pad, quickly jotted down the directions, then placed the small sheet of paper into her palm, closing his large hand around hers. “Route 40 west,” he said, pretending not to notice the slight tremor, “left on Centennial Lane, right at the light at Old Annapolis. We’re the fourth house on the right.” He turned her loose. “You can’t miss us.”
She stared at the directions, then looked at him. In school, when the teachers weren’t watching, he’d made fun of the supersensitive male poets who’d written lush prose describing how it felt to be lost in a woman’s gaze. He hadn’t understood a word of their sweet talk, because frankly, he couldn’t get a handle on the why of it.
He understood them now, as he looked into dusky eyes that made Dara seem mysterious and elusive and at the same time vulnerable and sensitive, with a capacity for love like no one he’d ever known.
It disappointed him more than he cared to admit when she blinked, turned that warmth on his children again. “See you in a few hours, then,” Dara said, waving and smiling as he took them by the hand and led them toward the big double doors at the end of the hall. Bobby and Angie turned three, perhaps four times to look over their shoulders, tripping over his feet and their own before he was able to guide them outside.
Clearly, his children were charmed by Dara Mackenzie.
He had a feeling it was going to take a concerted effort on his part to keep her charm from working on him.
The kids had been in the living room for half an hour already, knobby knees poking into the cushions, elbows resting on the sofa back as they pressed their noses to the windowpane. “Where is she?” Angie sighed.
Chuckling, Noah said, “It’s only four-thirty, sweet girl. Miss Mackenzie said she’d be here a little before five, remember?”
“But it’s snowing harder now. Do you think she decided not to come?”
“I think she would have called.”
“But maybe you should call and offer to pick her up and bring her here, Father.”
“Maybe.”
“I saw one car slipping and sliding a few minutes ago. Do you think she was in an accident?”
It surprised him, the way his heartbeat quickened at the possibility. “I’m sure she’ll be here any minute, Angie.” But Noah sent a prayer heavenward on Dara’s behalf, just in case.…
“Do you think she’s…” Bobby squinted, searching his memory for the right word. “Do you think Miss Mackenzie is a punk-shal kind of person?”
“Yes, she seems the punctual type.”
“I hope she doesn’t get lost.”
“She won’t,” Angie confidently assured him.
Noah pocketed his hands and leaned on the door frame as he watched them, heads turning to follow every car that drove up or down the street. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen them looking forward to having a guest to dinner. Fact was, he’d never seen them so excited about company, particularly female company.
A year or so ago, he’d warily ventured back into the dating scene, but only because his wife had insisted that he try, as soon as possible, to find a mother substitute for Angie and Bobby. He might not have considered it even then if Bobby hadn’t asked, “Father, do you ever get lonely?”
The answer had cried out from his heart, from his head. Yes! he’d wanted to shout, yes, I’m lonely. He’d felt the pangs of it day and night, starting on the morning when Francine’s doctor had announced her prognosis. But he couldn’t very well admit it to the boy. The children needed his strength, not his weakness. So he’d said, “Now, why would I be lonesome when I have you and your sister to keep me company?”
Either Bobby hadn’t heard him, or chose to ignore the comment. “I get sad sometimes,” Bobby had said, “because I miss Mother.”
Angie, he recalled, had not agreed. He’d sloughed it off to immaturity; perhaps the girl felt her mother had abandoned them.
“No need to be sad, kids,” he’d said, “because your mother is in heaven now, with Jesus.”
“Is she happy there?” Angie had wanted to know.
Francine had talked so much about paradise in those last, pain-filled days. “Yes, I believe she is.”
Bobby nodded. “Do you think she misses us?”
He’d looked into his little boy’s face, a face so small, so innocent, yet so old and wise. “Of course she does. Your mother loved you more than…more than life itself.”
Angie had sighed heavily and frowned. “Then I don’t see how she can be happy.” She’d met Noah’s eyes and said very matter-of-factly, “I’m sure not happy when I think about how much I miss her.”
They’d been so young when Francine died—Angie, four and Bobby three—too young to remember much about their mother. Or so the experts said.
“They miss the things she did for them,” insisted the Christian counselor Noah had hired. “Have you considered remarrying, Mr. Lucas?”
In truth, he had not. It may not be macho to admit it in this day and age, but Noah had never been with any woman except Francine. The thought of sharing himself so completely with another woman…
But the therapist’s words had echoed Francine’s own. If it would help his children, he’d set aside his feelings, take another wife. But it would have to be in name only, he told himself time and again, because the woman hadn’t been born who could replace Francine in his heart.
He’d learned to trust his children’s instincts about potential dates. They liked Dara Mackenzie. Noah had a feeling that tonight’s dinner was going to end up quite differently.
“Father, she’s here!” Angie announced, in a voice filled with anticipation and wonder.
Chapter Three (#ulink_f07b8300-afbb-5b42-9568-8ceb364df93a)
“I’ll wash, you dry,” Dara suggested as she stacked the dinner plates, “since you know where everything goes.”
He gave her a sideways look. “I realize I come off as an old-fashioned stick-in-the-mud kind of guy,” he said, “but a couple of years back, I actually invested in a modern-day gizmo called a dishwasher.”
Dara grinned as Noah carried the nearly empty lasagna tray to the sink. “Amazing contraption,” he continued. “Put the dirty dishes in, close the door, and voilà! Clean dishes!”
“I stand corrected, Mr. Lucas.”
“‘Noah,’ Miss Mackenzie.”
“‘Dara,’ Mr. Lucas.”
He chuckled, tore off a sheet of aluminum foil and covered the leftover lasagna. “We could go on this way long into the night.”
“I’m afraid I can’t stay long into the night. In fact,” she said, standing on tiptoe at the window, “I should probably have left half an hour ago. I imagine the snow has started to mount up by now.”
Noah flipped a switch near the back door, flooding the yard with light.
Dara gasped. “Oh, my goodness! It’s white, as far as the eye can see, and still coming down like crazy.” She glanced at Noah, who had parted the miniblinds to stare out the half window in the back door. “How deep do you think it is?”
He squinted into the snowy night. “The bottom step is completely buried, and the snow is halfway up the second.” He met her eyes. “If I had to guess, I’d say there’s more than a foot.” He snapped the blinds shut. “We could get another twelve inches before it’s over.”
“But it’s not even Thanksgiving yet!” Dara glanced at the wall clock, then gasped. “How could it be nearly nine o’clock already!”
Noah shrugged. “Time sure flies when you’re having fun?”
“I suppose,” she said distractedly, looking out the window again. “I hope they’ve plowed the roads. I don’t know if my car will make it through a foot of snow otherwise.”
He held out his hand. “Let’s take a gander out the front window and see if the plows have been by or not.”
Hesitantly, she put her hand into his and let him lead her down the hall and into the living room. Had she done or said something to make him think she’d accepted his invitation because she was interested in him? The last thing on her mind had been romance!
Well, not the last thing, but romance certainly hadn’t been the primary reason for the visit. Her plan had been simple and straightforward: hire Noah Lucas to help her prove that her father had not committed a crime. She hadn’t expected to have an opportunity to discuss the arrangement this evening, what with the children around, but she had presumed the dinner would be a good start, a place to establish the rapport required to make the question possible…later.
Dara didn’t know if she’d define what they’d established tonight as “rapport,” but something had developed between them, or that almost kiss wouldn’t have happened in the kitchen earlier.
She blamed it on tension, hers and Noah’s. He hadn’t so much as hinted at that distasteful Pinnacle matter, to give him his due, but it was there anyway, like a translucent fog. Her nerves had been in a knot since he’d first told her about the charges against her father. Surely it was on Noah’s mind, too, since he’d have to be the one to start the prosecution ball rolling.
“I thought you might like the opportunity to replace the money,” Noah had offered, even before she’d taken a seat that first day, “before I make my report to Kurt Turner, if I can legitimately attest that the funds are here…”
Dara had a respectable sum piled up in her savings account, and she’d invested a few dollars in the stock market, as well. But two hundred thousand?
He’d been reserved, businesslike, coldly calculating up until that point, but the moment she admitted she couldn’t put her hands on that kind of money, his demeanor changed. His frown had deepened, and he dug into the file as if he’d gone back a hundred years in time, to some dusty Texas town where a rustler had escaped the jailer’s wagon. In a snap, it was as though he saw himself headin’ up the posse that would hunt down the bad guy, then hold him till the sheriff showed up to haul the varmint off to the hoosegow.
She could tell by the way he attacked this case that he could be as determined as a bloodhound, as ruthless as a pit bull. If she could harness that tenacity, put it to work on her father’s behalf…
“How can I get you on my side?” she intended to ask. Cut and dried. Period. From what little she knew of him, a man like that would probably admire her straightforwardness, because she’d be speaking his language.
A man like what?
He wasn’t cold and heartless. At least, not entirely. He was strict with the children, but what choice did he have, when circumstances had forced him to be both mother and father to them?
He was still holding her hand when they walked into his living room, where the children lay on their stomachs, chins propped in upturned palms, staring at the TV.
“What are you watching?” Noah asked.
“Some show about angels.” Angie rolled over to face her father. “See that man with the long blond hair?”
He nodded.
“He’s one of the angels. Can you believe it? I didn’t know there were such things as boy angels.”
Chuckling, Noah said, “Some of the most powerful angels in God’s kingdom were boys. There was the archangel Gabriel, remember, and Michael, and—”
“Boat angels are no big deal,” Bobby said.
“Boat angels?” Dara asked.
Sitting cross-legged, the boy faced her. “You know, like the ones on the ark?”
Dara smiled. “Ark-angels. Of course.” And laughing, she said, “You’re an angel. A nutty one.”
The show’s credits scrolled up the screen as Noah said, “It’s after nine, kids. Time for bed.”
“But there won’t be any school tomorrow, Father. The weatherman said so, because of all the snow outside.”
“You’re probably right, Angie, but you’ve both been up since six.” He smiled. “Now, say good-night to Miss Mackenzie and run upstairs. I’ll be up in a minute to tuck you in and hear your prayers.”
Without another word of protest, the children turned off the TV.
“Thank you for the dessert, Miss Mackenzie,” Bobby said.
Angie nodded. “It was delicious.”
Dara laid her hands on their shoulders. “I had a wonderful time. And to prove it, maybe I’ll teach you to make ice-cream-cone cakes sometime soon.”
Cheery faces tilted up to meet her eyes. “Really? When?”
“We’ll discuss it in the morning,” Noah interrupted gently. “Now, scoot! Call me when you’ve changed into your pajamas.”
Dara opened the front door a crack, peeked out into the snowy night. “Hmm…the plows haven’t been by yet” She stood for a moment, transfixed by the sight. “It’s so beautiful out there,” she whispered, hugging herself to fend off the chill, “all hushed and white and sparkly.”
Noah rested his chin on her shoulder to have a look for himself. “Beautiful,” he agreed.
He was behind her, so she couldn’t read the expression that accompanied the unadorned statement, yet something in his full, rich baritone told Dara he wasn’t referring to the wintry landscape. The shiver that ran through her had nothing to do with the temperature, because there he was again, unsettlingly close.
“I’d better be going,” she said, trying to hide the tremor in her voice, “before it gets any worse.”
“Before what gets worse?”
Swallowing a gasp, she gave a thought to the possibility that he could read her mind. Then, dismissing it, she said, “The weather, of course.”
Noah turned her to face him. “You can’t drive that puddle jumper of yours in this mess.” With his free hand, he closed the door. “First snowplow that comes along will bury you for sure.”
“Well, I can’t stay here. What would people think?”
“They’d think you were smart enough to know better than to risk your life to protect your reputation.”
Reputation. The word reverberated in her ears. Preserving her father’s reputation had been the sole reason she’d come here.
Or had it?
Whatever the reason, it had gotten lost amid the children’s happy banter, a home-cooked meal, a near kiss.…
Now I know why they say you can’t judge a book by its cover. Noah had all but destroyed her original assessment of him with the affection he’d showered on his kids, with the home he’d made for them. If only he had been the brutal businessman she’d thought him to be, Dara wouldn’t be fighting her feelings for him now!
And how do you feel about him?
The answer was easy: she liked him. Liked him a great deal. Which made things hard, very hard, because in order for her plan to work, she would have to keep things “strictly business.”
Wouldn’t she?
Dara had heard of being backed into a corner, but it had never actually happened to her before. Well, you’re cornered now, she told herself, figuratively and literally. She stood, shoulders and backside pressed against the cool wall, blinking into his dark-lashed blue eyes. Instinct told her Noah would never harm her. So what’re you afraid of? she wondered as her heartbeat doubled.
Was fear responsible for her racing pulse? Or had some other emotion made her feel light-headed and jittery, like a girl in the throes of her first crush?
The only light in the foyer spilled in from the living room, soft and dim and puddling on the deep-green slate in buttery pools. The hazy amber rays painted his face in light and shadow, accenting the patrician nose, the square jaw, the fullness of his thickly mustached mouth.
She wasn’t afraid of him, Dara realized. Rather, it was her reaction to him that scared her witless. The pull couldn’t have been stronger, not if he were made of ore and a magnet had been implanted in her heart.
Noah pressed his palms against the wall, one on either side of her head. “If you insist on going home,” he said, “I insist on driving you.”
“But…”
But that would mean bundling the children up and loading them into the car, putting all three Lucases at risk on the slick, snow-covered roads.
“But what?” Noah asked.
Dara closed her eyes. Lord, she prayed, tell me what to do!
“Father,” Angie called from the top of the stairs, “we’re ready.”
“I’ll be right there.”
His mustache grazed her cheek before he pulled away. Without taking his gaze from Dara’s eyes, he grabbed her hand, led her back into the kitchen. “There’s a canister of hot chocolate in the pantry. Why don’t you fix us both a cup while I make my rounds.”
She glanced toward the French doors that led to the deck. Noah hadn’t turned off the spotlights, and they illuminated thousands of fat snowflakes, as big as quarters, that drifted down and landed silently atop the high, silvery drifts. Every twig and branch seemed to reach up and out, welcoming the thick downy blanket of white. Lovely as it was, Dara couldn’t drive in this. Noah had been right: her aging little compact could barely make it over speed bumps; it would never make it through a foot and a half of heavy, wet snow.
One foot on the bottom step, he turned and said, “I think the snow is a blessing in disguise.”
“A blessing?”
He nodded. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about, and now that you’re a captive audience…” He gave her a small, mysterious smile, then climbed the stairs two at a time.
Does he want to talk more about the Pinnacle funds? Dara wondered as he disappeared around the landing. She had the impression that subject was talked through. Shrugging, she walked into the kitchen. After filling the gleaming chrome teapot with tap water and setting it atop the back burner, Dara grabbed two mugs from the cabinet above the dishwasher. He doesn’t seem like the cocoa type to me, she told herself, dropping a tea bag into each cup. And while she waited for the water to boil, Dara wandered into the family room, where she held her hands above the warmth radiating from the big black woodstove.
She’d heard that Noah had lost his wife several years before moving here. So who had decorated this room? The furniture looked brand-new. Twin muted-blue plaid sofas, facing each other, flanked the fireplace. At either end of each stood a bleached-oak table. On one sat a lamp made from a birdhouse; on another, a brass lantern that had the earmarks of an antique. Magazines, arranged in a fan shape, lay on the coffee table. And framed photographs, rather than paintings or prints, decorated the walls.
Dara moved in for a closer look, saw first a five-byseven picture of Angie, bundled in a bunting, snuggled in her mother’s arms. Noah’s wife had been a beauty, just as Dara had suspected. Long, dark hair spilled over one shoulder, and wide, brown eyes gleamed with maternal pride as she smiled at her infant daughter. Another picture, taken a year later, showed her in a similar pose, this time with Bobby on her lap.
Beside that photograph hung an eight-by-ten fullcolor portrait of Noah and Francine on their wedding day. Her shimmering hair had been gathered in a loose topknot and secured by a wreath of tiny red roses and baby’s breath. The off-the-shoulder gown skimmed her trim waist and hips, rippled out behind her like a white satin river. And Noah, outfitted like royalty in a white tuxedo, stood straight backed and beaming beside his beautiful new wife.
Like the stage manager of a one-act play, the photographer had set the scene, positioning the bride and groom face-to-face on the altar’s red-carpeted steps, arranging her gauzy veil to float around her face like a translucent cloud. He’d placed vases of flowers at their feet, linked their hands around the stems of her redrose bouquet. Talent and artistry aside, he could not have fabricated the love that blazed in their eyes.
Dara had dreamed all her life of loving—of being loved—like that. What would it be like to have found and lost it, as Noah so obviously had? Devastating, she thought. And for the first time since their meeting, Dara believed she understood why Noah sometimes seemed so standoffish, indifferent, almost harsh with his children: he was holding life at arm’s length to protect himself from experiencing such pain ever again.
But if that was the case, why had he come so close to kissing her…not once but twice!
Sighing, Dara returned to the kitchen, where the water was at a full boil in the kettle. How would Noah take his tea? she asked herself, stirring half a teaspoon of sugar into her own mug. With honey and lemon? Cream and sugar? Or just plain? If she had to guess, she’d choose the latter. Everything else about him was no-frills, from the neatly trimmed mustache above his upper lip to the gleam of his razor-cut hair.
And whatever it was that he wanted to say to her, she had a feeling he’d get straight to the point.
Francine had always been the one who’d listened to their prayers, but once she accepted the fact that her illness was terminal, she had said, “It’s important that you be there for them, morning and night. How else will they learn that talking to God can be as easy and as natural as breathing?”
It had been just one of the many things he’d promised in her last hours. So far, he hadn’t let her down. With the help of a cleaning service, he kept the house shipshape and saw to it Angie and Bobby ate three squares a day. He made sure they continued with their piano lessons and took her place in helping them with their homework. And most important of all, he’d made a point of attending Sunday services with them after their Bible class ended. “Children learn by example,” Francine had said.
More times than he cared to admit, Noah wished he’d been more observant of all the little things she’d done to make his life pleasant and peaceful. Things like pretty flower arrangements that brightened dark corners. His bathrobe, belted and hanging neatly in their closet. Socks, freshly laundered and paired, then rolled into a ball and tucked into his top dresser drawer.
She’d known without his saying so that he didn’t like his feet cramped into a tightly sheeted bed. And so, in addition to covers that were pulled back and smoothed, Francine had, without fail, untucked the sheets and blankets every night.
Raised in St. Vincent’s Orphanage with nothing but a change of clothes to call his own, the closest he’d come to loving and being loved was when old Brother Constantine invited the lonely boy to join him for his daily walks around the academy grounds.
He’d been dumped on the headmaster’s doorstep at the tender age of two, and by the time Noah turned fourteen, he’d given up hope that one of the smiling couples who came “visiting” would take him home. The starry-eyed ladies and their stoic husbands were looking for babies, after all, and he’d grown too tall, too gangly, for their tastes. Besides, if his own mother hadn’t wanted him, why should anyone else?
But years of the brother’s quiet and steadfast acceptance opened the boy’s heart to the possibility, at least, that one day he might find the kind of warmth that can be generated only by a loving family. And when he was twenty-two, four full years after he’d left St. Vincent’s and Brother Constantine behind, Noah found it in the arms of Francine Brewster.
Her motherly ministrations were like soothing salve, healing the raw wounds of desperation inflicted by years of believing love was an emotion intended for everyone, anyone but him.
He had accepted her gift of unconditional love, and, believing it was far better to show her that he appreciated it, Noah took to doing little things for his wife. Things like surprising her with bouquets of wildflowers, plucked from the roadside; building a potting shed out back, complete with heat and electricity, where she could tend her green-leafed “pets.” He added a room to the back of their Pennsylvania farmhouse so she’d have a place to read when the mood struck.
Oh, how she’d brightened his life! Noah often said he would have tried to reel in the sun if she thought it might warm her, would have gathered up the stars to add sparkle to her life. She’d laugh softly and wave his wishes away, saying, “You’re plenty warm and sparkly for me!”
Still, he’d have done anything she’d asked of him, because Noah believed that nothing he did or built or said could ever balance the scales once she’d given him those precious treasures called Angela Marie and Robert Edward.
He missed her. Missed the companionship and the camaraderie. And being with Dara tonight had reminded him that a rock-solid marriage could be as comfortable as a feather bed.
He hadn’t met a person who didn’t love Dara—and he’d spoken to dozens in trying to find out if she might be involved in the embezzlement scheme. Why, he’d need a calculator to count up all the people who said she’d done them a favor or a kindness over the years!
She certainly had a way with children, his own in particular. She had an incredible sense of humor. And from all he’d seen, she enjoyed hard work. He sensed that the sweetness in her started in her heart, reverberated to every other part of her. And she’s certainly pretty enough, he thought, picturing her dark doe eyes, her bouncy curls, her heart-stopping smile.
More importantly, Dara was a devout follower. That was essential. Francine had specifically told him if love ever came knocking again, he should open the door—provided a Christian woman stood on the other side. “A believer will see to it Angie and Bobby are raised in the faith. She’ll teach them through her own example, not just by words alone.”
He’d prayed himself hoarse over it; if he had to rehitch his wagon—and according to the counselor, that’s exactly what his kids needed most right now—why not yoke himself to someone he sincerely respected, a woman he genuinely liked?
Noah shrugged. Because who knows? You might just find yourself feeling more than friendship for Dara…one day.
If he was honest with himself, he’d have to admit he felt more than that for her now. How else was he to explain the way his heart had thundered when he’d almost held her in his arms…when he’d almost kissed her lovely pink lips.…
“Father?” Angela Marie was saying now.
She’d caught him daydreaming, and she knew it. Noah returned her mischievous smile.
“Good thing you listened to my prayers last,” she said, grinning.
He tucked the covers up under her chin. “And why is that?”
“Because Bobby gets his feelings hurt if you don’t pay attention to his prayers, remember?”
Nodding, Noah chuckled. “What makes you think I wasn’t paying attention to your prayers?”
“Because,” she said matter-of-factly, “you didn’t say ‘Amen’ when I finished.”
“Good night, sweet girl,” he said, bending to kiss her forehead.
He turned out the light, and as he stepped into the hall, he heard her whisper, “I love you, Father.”
“I love you, too.”
Heart knocking against his ribs, he descended the stairs and headed for the kitchen, where Dara was waiting for him. What he was about to say wouldn’t be easy, but it would be right.
Dara had finished one cup of tea and was halfway through a second before she decided to wait for him in the family room, where it was warmer. According to the carriage clock on top of the TV, he’d been gone twenty minutes.
It seemed like an hour.
Dara worried about staying the night. What would his neighbors say when the little red car that had been parked in his driveway before the snow started was still there in the morning? What would Angie and Bobby think when they woke up and found their Sunday-school teacher asleep on the sofa in their family room? And speaking of Sunday school, how would the parents of her other students feel when they found out she’d spent the night in a widower’s house?
You’re a grown-up, they’d scold, why didn’t you check the weather before it got too hazardous to drive? To which she’d reply, Well, if they don’t think any better of me than that…
Still, others might say that she’d subconsciously allowed herself to get waylaid at Noah’s house. Some would no doubt think it hadn’t been unconscious at all, that she’d deliberately gotten stranded, miles from home, on one of the worst weather nights of the year.
Dara sighed. Because, in all honesty she didn’t know which scenario was true.
She was standing at the stove when she heard him coming down the hall. “How do you take your tea?” she asked when he came in from the small home office adjacent to the kitchen.
He carried a thick accordion file under his arm. “No hot chocolate?”
“I figured you’d suggested it only on my behalf.”
Grinning, he said, “You figured right.”
“So…?” She pointed to the mug
He hesitated a moment before saying, “Strong and black.”
She wondered about the tick in time that had passed before he answered. But his response had been what she’d expected: no frills, just like Noah himself.
“Sorry it took so long up there. The kids get a little wordy sometimes.”
It isn’t like I was going anywhere, she wanted to say, not with a foot and a half of snow on the ground. “I didn’t mind,” she said, instead. “I made myself comfortable in the family room. It’s very warm and cozy in there.”
“Then what say we bring the—” He frowned at the file. “How about if we drink our tea in the family room?”
The way he’d stopped midsentence Dara knew he hadn’t said what he’d intended. His serious expression told her it wouldn’t be long until he did.
She carried their mugs into the family room. While she’d waited for him to tuck the children in, Dara had decided the big overstuffed recliner in the corner was Noah’s. Her father had had a favorite chair, and it, too, had that certain comfortably worn quality. She put one mug on the table beside it, placed the other on the coffee table and nodded at the file. “What’s that?” she asked, sitting on the end of the couch nearest his chair.
“Something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about,” he said, sliding a manila folder from the file. “But before I show you what’s in here, I want you to know I feel terrible about this.”
Why did his tone of voice, his choice of words, remind her of when her father used to begin her childhood scoldings with “This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you”?
“I gave a lot of thought to what you’d said the other day in your father’s office, that he wasn’t the kind of man who could steal.”
Dara’s heart hammered; her palms grew moist. This was going to be much more serious than any reprimand her dad had ever doled out.
“I never had the pleasure of meeting him,” Noah continued, “but his reputation as an honest businessman was well-known…and well-deserved, from everything I’ve heard. That’s what prompted me to take another look into this matter of…of embezzlement.”
Embezzlement. The word echoed loudly, harshly, in her ears, like the deep, repeating grate of the school’s fire alarm.
“You sounded so sure of his innocence,” Noah said, “that it made me believe if I dug deep enough, looked long enough, I might just find the proof you were talking about, proof that would clear his name.”
“You’re not going to believe this, but…”
“But what?”
“I came here tonight hoping to discuss that very thing with you.”
His furrowed brow told her he still didn’t understand.
“I was hoping you’d go to work for me, looking for…looking for—”
“Proof that would clear your father’s name?” he repeated.
Dara nodded. “You didn’t find it, did you?”
His somber expression was her answer.
Noah took a deep breath, handed Dara the file. “I didn’t leave a stone unturned. I checked into everything. No one escaped my scrutiny, not the board of directors, not Kurt Turner, not the bookkeeper or even the secretary.” Noah paused, still frowning. “Only a handful of people had access to that money, and each one of them could account for every cent.” He met her eyes, his frown intensifying slightly. “The trail deadends at your father’s door.”
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