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Without releasing the little girl’s hand, Blackburn lifted his other hand. His fingers closed around Miranda’s arm. He applied the same silent warning he’d used when they stood in front of the preacher and he’d dragged the consent of marriage out of her.
“Of course she does.” Steely fingers bit into Miranda’s arm. “She’s always wanted a little girl of her own to look after. Haven’t you, Miranda?”
Miranda studied the child. She seemed a timid little thing. And there was only one of her. Not four, like the boisterous Summerton girls who had worn her nerves into a tangle in five minutes. When Miranda didn’t say anything, the little girl blinked. A solitary tear spilled out from beneath her thick dark lashes and rolled down her cheek.
Seeing that tear, sensing the loneliness and grief the child so valiantly tried to hide, jolted Miranda out of her stunned reticence. A new mama. That implied Nora must have lost her mother, and most likely also her father.
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