For His Daughter

The meeting between him and Frannie had been awkward, and when Ellen had sent the girl back to her room, Rafe couldn’t feel anything but relieved.

That relief had soon turned to anger when Ellen had announced that she wanted Rafe to raise Frannie from now on. She had struggled financially for years, she’d said, but had finally found a great man to marry. An older man, who’d brought up his own kids and didn’t want to have any more in the house. This was her only chance for real happiness, and it was time Rafe shouldered his responsibility.

He had wanted to run. He had wanted to tell her it was too late to expect scruples from him. A long time too late. The way he’d lived his life, he figured he had sacrificed them years ago.

He might have been able to pull it off if he’d never seen the kid. But from that moment on, Rafe knew that within him there lay a very fragile thread of scruples after all, a basic sense of fairness that told him that no matter what, he could not simply walk away from this little girl the way Ellen could. Whatever his daughter needed from him, he’d make happen.

Which was why he was home now, trying to make peace with a father who had no use for him and a family that didn’t know what to expect from him. He needed to settle down, make a stable home for Frannie. Give her as much time as possible with this extended family so that she could feel as though she belonged someplace at last. Most of all, figure out how a father-daughter relationship ought to work.

It wouldn’t be easy. It wouldn’t be quick. But there were bigger things at stake now, like his daughter’s well-being.

A daughter who didn’t really know him at all.

SAM D’ANGELO RARELY SLEPT through the night anymore and often slipped from bed unnoticed. After forty years of sleeping beside the same woman, he knew Rosa’s sleep patterns, and that night, when he struggled into the metal cuffs of his crutches, he had no fear of waking her.

He made his way slowly out of the bedroom, through the family’s private quarters and past the lodge kitchen toward the lobby. It was after 3:00 a.m. and no one was about. The lodge’s sixteen rooms and two suites were full, but quiet.

Before his illness, Sam would have slipped on a jacket and gone outdoors to the side patio, a place where during the day visitors could pull up one of the hand-carved rocking chairs to enjoy a view of the mountains and Lightning Lake. It would have taken their breath away. The Rockies were giant monoliths watching over them, and even on the darkest night, the lake—now melting in the spring thaw—sparkled through the trees like diamond dust, a hidden treasure that never ceased to enchant.

But the flagstone surface of the patio played havoc with Sam’s balance on the crutches, and even the view was not worth yet another trip to the hospital down at Idaho Springs.

He settled instead on the library, though without a fire in the grate and people to enjoy it, it seemed cold and unwelcoming. Disappointed, he slid into the deep leather chair in front of the chess set his father had brought all the way from Italy so long ago.

Odd to think that he would have found comfort in coming across a fellow insomniac at this hour, even a stranger. Usually, when he was this restless, he preferred his own company, but it might have been nice to share the peace and tranquility of this place, this black velvet night, with someone else who appreciated it the way he did.

Someone whose presence might help quiet his disordered frame of mind.

Maybe that was too tall an order from anyone. After all, he’d been on edge for a few weeks now. Ever since Rafe had come home.

What real hope was there that fences between them could be mended?

Perhaps it was impossible. Sam knew that Rosa was irritated with him often these days, feeling that he wasn’t trying hard enough to find a way to bridge the gap between himself and Rafe, if only for the sake of the child.

But how could he when the past was so clearly etched in his brain?

He vividly remembered those last days before he and Rafe had had their final argument at the hospital. It had been springtime—just like now—but there’d been nothing hopeful and green about it back then. A tardy, disappointing season, muddy underfoot. The lodge’s winter receipts had been weak, too many empty rooms on the weekends due to a lack of fresh snowfall.

Most of all, the edgy discord between every member of the family had been palpable. Little irritations. Petty warfare between the children. And always, always, too many moments of cold, silent disapproval and heated words that could not be taken back between Sam and his youngest son.

Rafe had always been their most difficult child. Never as focused and steady as Nicholas, as easygoing as Matthew, or as sweet-natured as Adriana. But Sam had not expected the boy to up and run off the way he had. In his heart, he had expected a minor show of rebellion, then an uneasy peace.

All hope had died on a night when Sam had picked up the telephone and found the police on the other end, asking him to come down to the hospital in Idaho Springs. He’d made that trip down the mountain in record time, refusing to allow Rosa to accompany him, fearful of what he’d find there, a cramping terror in his gut.

What he’d found had been his angry and unrepentant son in the process of being stitched up, his body scraped and bruised from the fight he’d been in with a drug dealer. The jagged knife-cut along his thigh was not life-threatening, but Sam could barely breathe for thinking how a few centimeters one way or the other could have changed that fact.

He was as furious as he was frightened, of course, and even after all these years he knew he had handled the incident badly. Condemnation. Mistrust. The unwillingness to see his son’s side of things at all. As a result, Rafe had not come home. Instead, he had disappeared out into the world for twelve long years, and nothing would ever change the loss that defection had brought to their lives.

Sam became aware of movement beside him and discovered his wife slipping onto the arm of the chair, pulling him close so that she could plant a kiss on the top of his head.

“Come back to bed,” she said softly. “You can’t solve anything tonight.”

It was uncanny, how well Rosa knew him after so many years. Still, he had to try to keep her from thinking he had no surprises left to give her. “What makes you think I’m trying to solve anything?” he asked. “I’m just restless.”

“Samuel…”

“We need a new mattress. Let’s go shopping for one in the morning.”

“We don’t need a new mattress. Do you want to talk about what we do need?”

“No.”

“Samuel…”

He knew that tone. He cocked his head at her, settling for a portion of the truth. “He’s not going to stay, Rosie.”

She didn’t need to ask who he meant. She simply shrugged. “He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t have to stay if he decides he doesn’t want to. But if he does, then we’ll make a place for him here.”

“It won’t be easy. The two of us…we don’t communicate.”

“That’s because you are both hardheaded and proud. Too much alike.” He heard the smile in her voice. She brought her hand to his chest, rubbing across his heart gently. “But you know something inside you is hungry for reconciliation.”

“Perhaps. But on my terms.”

“What terms?”

“I don’t know the real reason he’s come home, but I will not have this family put in harm’s way. Not twelve years ago. Not now.”

Rosa made a disgusted sound in her throat. “I should have tried harder to make you see reason back then. Rafe would never do that.”

“Have you completely forgotten what a rebellious child he was?”

“Children grow up.”

“And men grow hard.”

She angled her head so that she could catch his eyes. “Sam, I know my children. And in your heart, you do as well. Rafe never did drugs. He would never have brought them into this house. Even that night, the doctors told you there were no drugs in his system.”

“Maybe not at that particular moment. But you weren’t there, Rosa,” Sam said stubbornly, remembering the terrifying spectacle he had witnessed. “You didn’t see what I saw. It was a miracle that he wasn’t killed.”

“You should have brought him home.”

He had no reply for that. Since there had been no charges against Rafe, bringing his son home was precisely what Sam had wanted that night, to bring his boy back to the safety and security of the lodge. Instead, he knew he had driven Rafe even farther away.

He couldn’t bear to think of all the mistakes he’d made that night, so he said, “Rafe made the decision to walk away from this family. No one else.”

“But he’s back now. We have been given a second chance.” Rosa squeezed his arm. “This is not a bridge to burn, Samuel. It is a bridge to cross.”

“You’re wasting your time. We might as well be strangers to him.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Believe what you want. I’m afraid—” He broke off, unsure how to express himself.

His wife slipped off the arm of the chair and knelt beside him. She cupped his hands in hers. “What are you afraid of? That he will stay with us? Or that he won’t?”

“We should go back to bed,” he said roughly. “Today will be busy with the holiday coming.”

She ignored him, instead placing soft kisses along the knobby ridges of his knuckles. When she looked up at him, the sweetest smile was on her lips. “She looks like you, you know?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, though he knew perfectly well who she referred to.

“Of course you do.”

“I find it irritating that you continue to be a woman who enjoys little mysteries.”

“There’s no mystery, really. Francesca looks like you. I’ve seen you looking at her. You have noticed the resemblance.”

“I’m naturally curious about any child Rafe claims is his.”

“And yet you take pains to stay away from her. Why is that?”

“The wheelchair frightens her.”

She sighed. “Samuel…”

Annoyed, he lifted his hands out of hers, spreading them in disgust. “Am I not allowed to take my own time? She may be my blood, but that doesn’t mean we’re automatically simpatico, you know?”

“She has your fondness for polka dots.” Her hands plucked at the smooth pattern of his pajama sleeve. One of his favorites—white spots on a royal blue background. “I find that shared quirk rather strange.”

“Liking polka dots is not a quirk. And it means nothing.”

“She’s just a little girl, Sam. No doubt she’s frightened by all the sudden changes in her life. I’ve told Rafe I want her to spend as much time as possible with us. She needs family. More than Rafe, she needs our love and understanding.”

“Give me time.”

“Your heart understands what your head cannot yet conceive. Trust those feelings.”

Sam shook his head. Rosa was too generous, too willing to forget. “He won’t stay,” he said again, more forcefully this time. “We’ll open up our home and our hearts and they’ll both be gone by Christmastime. Mark my words.”

Her poise could not be shaken by the pessimism of his tone. She simply nodded, as if accepting that possibility. “I have decided that this is a chance worth taking. Meeting your son halfway is no more frightening in the long run than living a life without him.”

CHAPTER FOUR

RAFE WAS GLAD TO HAVE EASTER behind him. He wasn’t comfortable with family holidays, with their lollipop colors and enforced gaiety. There were too many opportunities for mis-takes.

But Mom’s cooking was excellent as usual and the family seemed relaxed and pleased by the lodge guests’ eager participation in the planned festivities. Watching the kids collect Easter eggs on the lawn hadn’t been too bad, though he’d bet half of them would be sick by dinnertime from eating too many sweets.

His daughter had been on her best behavior. Nick and his wife, Kari, had brought their new son, Ethan, to the festivities, and Frannie always seemed enchanted by the sight of the baby. When she was allowed to hold him, she lit up momentarily and then settled into the responsibility with the most serious look on her face that Rafe had ever seen.

Whatever her reason for good conduct, that, and the fact that Rafe and his father had managed to pass a fairly civil holiday, made him breathe a huge sigh of relief.

The control he exercised around his father could easily fail him. He’d say the wrong thing. Do the wrong thing. And then where would they be? Rafe was trying desperately not to fight in front of Frannie. Hell, when it came to getting along with Pop, he was desperate, period.

On Monday, he drove down the mountain, dropped Frannie back into her kindergarten class, made final arrangements for his daughter to be babysat on occasion by one of the teachers there and then headed downtown. Before going to the newspaper office, he wanted to make a stop at the makeshift construction office he’d put together at the Three Bs. Now that the holiday was over, renovations on the buildings would kick into high gear once again.

He parked on the street and was pleased to see that there were already several trucks and vans there, the workers getting an early start. Standing on the sidewalk, he couldn’t help once more admiring the workmanship that had gone into the place.

The inspectors he’d hired to give it the once-over had told him the Three Bs was structurally sound. It would take a good bit of money to make it comfortable and functional, but right now, thanks to years of saving and the money Wendall Crews had left him, money wasn’t tight.

Rafe knew he could have found a newer, more affordable, more practical place to call home, but he had a silly attachment to this building. He had an unexpected fondness for Victorian architecture—a sense of history tucked into crazy corners and fancy turrets. Maybe because he’d spent too many years living in nondescript apartments in too many nondescript neighborhoods.

But it was more than that, somehow. Perhaps it was the odd belief that if he could bring the Three Bs back to its former grandeur, he could resurrect his old life here as well.

His father would probably laugh at that idea.

A door slammed behind him, and Rafe turned to find an older man getting out of a battered truck. In the front seat, the biggest German shepherd Rafe had ever seen hung out the window, whining like a puppy when the man joined Rafe on the sidewalk and left him behind.

The guy gave him a short nod, then tossed his chin toward the building. “Gonna be a mess of work to get this place back to what it once was.”

“Probably,” Rafe agreed. “But it will be worth it.”

“Heard you were back in town. You don’t remember me, do you?”

Rafe looked at the man more closely, but couldn’t place the face. “Afraid not.”

“Leo Waxman. Waxman Electric. Good friend of your father’s.”

Rafe held out his hand. “Of course, I do remember. You used to have a lot of shepherd pups in a shed behind your house.”

“Still do on occasion,” the man said, obviously warming to the subject. Behind him the dog began an earsplitting whine, and Leo turned toward the truck. “Hush up, Brutus.” He swung back to Rafe. “I missed the town council meeting the other day. Heard you got elected publicity chairman for the festival.”

“Yep. If you’re here to tell me you want the job, I won’t fight you for it.”

“Nah. I’ve got no interest in the festival, and definitely no interest in trying to get those three committee knuckleheads to agree on a plan.” He indicated the building again. “But I also heard you bought this place, among others, and that does interest me. You plan on living here, or selling for a profit?”

“I figure four spec condos, plus my own place. Then I want to see about redesigning a few other buildings I’ve picked up downtown on First Street.”

“You gonna need help with the electric? If so, I’m your man.”

Leo handed Rafe a business card, and for the next few minutes they talked about what it would take to bring the building up to code, the improvements and modifications Rafe wanted to make to the existing structure. The electrician seemed eager for the work, knowledgeable and forthright. In spite of the differences Rafe had with his father, he knew Sam would never have kept the friendship of someone who couldn’t be trusted to do an honest day’s work.

Agreeing to get together later in the week, Rafe and Leo shook hands.

Leo grinned. “You know the Three Bs history?”

“That’s part of what drew me to it in the first place.”

The Three Bs, built in the 1880s, had originally meant beds, baths and breakfast, and had catered to the area’s silver miners looking to strike it rich. But widow Ida Mae Culpepper had discovered a more profitable way to make a living, and the social club had become very “social” after a few months in operation. The Bs soon translated to betting, booze and bad women.

Then during the Korean War, Myrtle Culpepper had taken over, following in her great-grandmother’s foot- steps to transform the establishment into the perfect place for enlisted men to listen to lively music, drink good liquor and spend a few hours of pleasure in the company of what the newspapers of that time had called “agreeable companions.”

Evidently drawing on some memory, Leo laughed. “You know, your father and I spent many a night in this place.”

That Rafe didn’t know, and he was surprised. “Really?”

“Oh, not when it was that kind of place. That was before our time. After Vietnam it got turned into just a social club, a place where a bunch of old leathernecks could compare war stories and drink a few beers. I used to play piano back then. Your dad used to pick up extra bucks by playing fiddle with the band.” He slid an amused glance at Rafe from under bushy brows. “Bet you didn’t know that, did you?”

His father a musician? How could that be? No one, not even their mother, had ever hinted at such a thing. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I sure didn’t.”

“That’s because he was god-awful. Two cats fighting in an alley sounded better, but nobody threw us off the stage. You get a few drinks in a bunch of guys, tell a few war stories, and everyone gets mellow.”

“I’ve never seen him pick up a musical instrument.”

“He quit fooling around with it once you kids came along, and things got cranking up there at the lodge. Way too busy to devote the time. Kinda went by the wayside, the way lots of things do once you start a family and you realize what’s important.”

What’s important. For a moment Rafe could envision his father making that conscious decision, putting aside the idle playthings of his younger years and taking on the responsibility of home and family.

Sam had always been able to focus on what needed to get done. He was a practical, goal-oriented man who had never understood the desire to see over to the other side of the mountain when you had what you needed right in your own backyard. It must have been particularly galling to him that his youngest son had refused to toe the line.

“I’ll give you a discount, you being Sam’s son and all.” Leo Waxman cut into Rafe’s thoughts.

“Thanks. I’ll look forward to working with you.”

“You’re not afraid of this place?”

“You mean the rumors that it’s haunted? No.”

In his youth, Rafe had explored the building by popping a broken board off a back window. The place had been deserted for years. He had been fascinated, and the teenage girls he’d brought here had found his arms just the right protection against the whispery night shadows of abandoned rooms. Depending on who you talked to in town, the Three Bs was either haunted or hiding a secret treasure, or both.

“Probably kept the price down,” Leo speculated.

That was true. When Rafe had decided to bring Frannie home to the family, he couldn’t resist seeing if the old place was still up for sale. He had big plans for it, and he couldn’t wait to move himself and Frannie into the place he’d already decided would make a suitable home for them both.

He knew Frannie was benefiting by spending so much time with his family, but he was eager to get out of the lodge, where Frannie must feel confused by all the hustle and bustle that came with running a thriving business. Where the air around his father was thick with tension.

The foreman of the construction site waved at Rafe, and seeing the opportunity to break away from Leo, he shook hands one last time with the man, clapped him on the shoulder and left him at the curb. They were tearing down walls in the club’s front room today, and he was eager to see what kind of workmanship lay behind the flocked, garish wallpaper that the Culpeppers had thought so attractive.

Once Rafe was satisfied the work was progressing well, he could move on to his next mission—getting one newspaperwoman to buy into the idea that the second Broken Yoke summer festival wasn’t geared strictly to make money for its citizens. Downtown revitalization, worthwhile causes, civic pride rebuilt. Could he persuade her that there was good to be done?

Maybe he was worrying too much. After four years of working for Wendall Crews and his far- flung empire, Rafe had honed the art of gentle, and not-so-gentle, persuasion. He had the talent to spin the festival any way the town wanted it. And just how bright a journalist could this Danielle Bridgeton be if the paper had stuck her out here in no- man’s-land?

Besides, big brother Nick had been right. Rafe still had the D’Angelo charm, and though he liked to think he’d changed, that he wasn’t prone to the old ways anymore, he hadn’t forgotten any of the old tricks.

If all else failed, he’d lay it on thick and deep. He’d make Ms. Bridgeton feel as though she were the center of his universe. He’d have her eating out of his hand.

By the time he was finished with her, she’d give them more newspaper coverage than the winter Olympics.

MAYNE SHE WASN’T the world’s best journalist, but Dani thought she could recognize a losing proposition when she saw one. She regarded the three stories spread out on the desk in front of her.

It would be hard to say which would be more exciting. Or which one was more likely to put Gary to sleep when he read it.

She began to feel helplessly angry again at the fates that had dropped her into the dullest news corridor of Colorado. This certainly wasn’t the future her mother had scrimped and saved for her daughter to have.

If Wanda Bridgeton could have seen her now, how disappointed would she be?

Not wanting to give in to another fit of useless emotion, Dani decided that maybe a second opinion was called for. After all, she was biased about what interested people in this neck of the woods.

“Cissy,” she called out the open office door. “Could you come in here a moment?”

Although she was several years younger, Cissy had become Dani’s closest friend here in Broken Yoke. She was a savvy saleswoman when it came to selling advertising for the paper, and she and Dani had discovered a mutual interest in making a name for themselves.

Cissy sauntered in and perched on the side of one of the office chairs expectantly.

Dani picked up the first story. “Tell me which of these pieces would interest you the most if you picked up the Sunday paper.” She expelled a resigned breath. “The new forklift that Silver Ridge paid a fortune for this past winter is out of commission because the idiot driving it ran into a ravine.”

“Was the idiot killed?”

“No.”

“Then who cares?”

Dani picked up the second story. “A guy down at Berthold Pass has grown a squash that has markings like Abraham Lincoln.”