Fathers and Other Strangers

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“Hey, little guy,” Hank said gently, pulling on a pair of thick leather workgloves, then picking up a pair of rose clippers. “How on earth did you manage to get yourself stuck in there?”

All the while he clipped, he prattled to the little dog, who finally quieted down, transfixed by the sound of Hank’s voice. At one point, Jenna glanced over at the girls, on whom that voice seemed to be having a similar effect. Blair, especially, her arms wound over her middle, shot a look at Jenna that was equal parts wonder and confusion. The last branch snipped, Hank reached in for the puppy, cradling the shaking thing in his large, gloved hand, carefully inspecting the tiny black body for injuries. And just as his harsh features softened, as his perpetual frown gave way to a genuine smile when the pup eagerly licked his scruffy chin, so did something inside Jenna.

The girls, naturally, were right there, both cooing and oohing over the little thing. “Is…he okay?” Blair asked, her voice tense with caution, her gaze flicking to Hank’s for only an instant.

“Far as I can tell. A few scratches, maybe, but nothing major. My guess is he’s been abandoned, though. There’s no collar, and he’s pretty skinny.” Cupping the dog’s butt, Hank twisted him around in his hands and looked him in the eye. “You out on your own, Bubba?”

The dog started wagging his tail so hard, he nearly wriggled right out of Hank’s hands. He laughed, then glanced over at Libby, scratching the pup’s ears. “Your daddy’s got some antiseptic we could put on him, doesn’t he?”

“Uh-huh,” Libby said. “But then what?”

Hank looked at the pup, then at the girls, before lifting up the dog and looking him straight in his big, brown eyes. A tiny pink tongue darted out, desperate to make contact with Hank’s nose. This time, Hank’s laughter sent a tingle straight through Jenna, one that settled right at the base of her heart.

“I can’t take him,” Blair said, a little wistfully. “Meringue would have a fit.”

“Not to mention I would,” Jenna thought it prudent to add.

Libby giggled as the pup tried to nibble on her finger. “I can’t take him, either. Daddy says we already have too many pets.”

After a long moment, Hank said, “Well, then. I guess that makes him mine.” He pretended to glower at the girls. “But y’all have to name him. I’m terrible at naming things.”

The girls thought that was a good idea. Then Libby remembered their lunch—apparently that’s what was in the Wal-Mart bag by the side of the road—and thought the pup might like part of her ham sandwich, which he did. Then, of course, they had to take the pup back to Libby’s to show him off and get the antiseptic put on him, even though he was going to be Hank’s dog. After they’d left, Hank offered to drive Jenna back to her cottage, since he said it seemed stupid for her to walk back when he had the truck right here.

The ride took all of two minutes, which wasn’t nearly enough time for Jenna to process even half of her thoughts about what had just happened, let alone all of them. But she did think to ask him why he’d taken the dog.

“Why not?” He scrubbed a hand across his hair, which didn’t do a thing for his coiffure. “Maybe it’s time I had something else to talk to at night besides myself, y’know?”

His words echoed painfully in her own sparsely furnished heart as they pulled up in front of the cottage. Jenna got out of the truck, then turned, her arms tightly tucked over her stomach as she peered back inside through the passenger-side window.

“Thanks,” she said.

Slouched in his seat, his right hand still loosely gripping the steering wheel, Hank looked at her, his brows knotted for a second or two. Then, with a sigh, they relaxed. “I might prefer keeping to myself most of the time, Ms. Stanton, but I’m not an ogre.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m sorry if I gave you that impression.”

After a moment, unable to think of a single, even minimally intelligent thing to say, she nodded, then ran up the porch steps to the relative safety of the cottage, away from the yearning in those dark eyes she doubted he even knew was there. But once back inside, as she stood at the front window, watching him one-handedly steer the truck back down the drive and replaying the past half hour in her head, she knew there was no reason not to tell Hank Logan he had a daughter.

Now all she had to do was figure out how.

The girls had brought the as-yet-unnamed puppy back about an hour later, then stayed to play with him out in front of the office. Which is where they still were, giggling their heads off and generally driving Hank nuts, when Cal showed up, somewhere around four. The door was open, so Hank saw his brother squat down to play with the dog—Cal had always had a way with animals, which is what made him such a damn good horse breeder, Hank supposed—exchange a few words with the girls, then stand and head for the office. Hank also saw a bunch of albums and envelopes and what-all tucked under his brother’s arm.

Oh, Lord.

“Hey.” Wearing that cocky grin of his, Cal walked into the office, plunked his load onto the counter. “You got a dog?”

“Yeah, I got a dog. So?”

“Kinda small, don’t you think?”

“It’ll grow. What’s all this?”

“Ten minutes, Hank. That’s all I’m asking. Just go through it, keep whatever you want, I’ll take back the rest.”

“I don’t want any of it.”

Cal crossed his arms, his gaze almost fierce underneath his hat brim. “This is your family history, dammit,” he said, keeping his voice low. “It’s not gonna kill you to keep a couple mementos of it. And you wouldn’t believe some of the stuff I found up in the attic. Stuff I sure don’t remember ever seeing. Take this, for instance…” He riffled through the pile and extracted a tattered brown envelope, out of which he pulled an old tinted photograph in a cardboard photographer’s frames. Cal looked at it for a moment, then turned it around so Hank could see. “You ever see this before? It’s a picture of Mama when she was fourteen. I only ever knew her with gray hair, so this was a shock….”

It was a shock, all right. But for very different reasons. While Hank stood there, paralyzed, staring at the photograph, Blair came in, hugging the pup to her chest. “Libby’s gotta go home, and I said I’d walk her, so is it okay to leave the puppy here with you? I think he’s getting pretty tired.”

Slowly, Hank forced himself to look up from the photograph…into a face uncannily like the image in his hand. As he did, he caught Cal’s frown at his obviously flummoxed expression, then saw his brother’s gaze dart to Blair. Hank finally found his voice, told Blair, sure, go ahead and leave the pup. After she left, Cal pried the photo from Hank’s grip. “Holy sh—” He looked at Hank, confusion swimming in his eyes. “That is totally weird…Hank? Hey—you okay?”

Hank grabbed the photo out of Cal’s hand. “Watch the dog,” he muttered on his way out the door.

The pounding on the cottage door sent the cat streaking into her bedroom and shaved five years off Jenna’s life. Then Hank roared her name and irritation gave way to stark terror, that Blair was hurt, that a forest fire was bearing down on the motel—

She yanked open the door, recoiling at the fury blazing in Hank’s eyes. Before she got her mouth open, he thrust a photograph into her hand.

“That’s my mother, when she was fourteen. Look like anybody you know?”

Jenna blanched: it was all there—the red hair, the freckles, even the shape of the eyelids. “Oh dear God,” she whispered. “This could be—”

“Yeah. So how about you tell me what the hell is going on here?”

Chapter 4

Jenna swore, nausea swamping her as she sank onto the edge of the sofa, staring at the photograph. Look at him, her brain directed. Her eyes refused to obey.

“This isn’t exactly playing out the way I’d hoped it would,” she said.

“And what way might that be?”

His sarcasm knifed through her. Unable to breathe, to think, she looked up into a bitter, unforgiving gaze that turned her blood to ice. And yet from somewhere came the strength to bear the brunt of his anger.

“Look, you’ve got every right to be mad. Just not at me.”

“That’s for me to decide. Well?”

“Where’s Blair? I can’t risk her hearing any of this. Not yet.”

“She’s gone back to Libby’s for a minute.” He crossed his arms. “So talk fast.”

Still hanging on to the picture, Jenna got up, telling herself in a few minutes the worst would be over, that she should be grateful the decision had been wrested from her hands. Her mouth dry as dust, she went over to the sink for a glass of water. “It’s very possible that Blair’s your daughter.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“When my sister died,” she said, filling her glass from the tap, “she left a diary. According to an entry in it dated nearly fourteen years ago, you and she had a brief affair. An affair which left her pregnant.”

“That’s nuts. I never dated anyone named Stanton.”

“Not Stanton. That’s my married name. Hollins. Sandy Hollins.” As she gulped down her water, she watched him process this information. “Ring a bell?”

“Yeah. I remember Sandy. But you’ve got no proof I’m Blair’s father.”

“No, I don’t.” She picked up the photo from where she’d set it on the counter and handed it to him. “But you do.”

His gaze shot to hers; Jenna ached for the confusion in his eyes. “So why didn’t she tell me she was pregnant?”

“Sandy didn’t tell anyone she was pregnant. Until she showed up on my parents’ doorstep in her eighth month.” She paused. “She’d been using. The baby almost didn’t make it.”

He stared at her, hard, for several seconds, then walked over to the window, staring at his mother’s photograph in the light. There were a hundred things Jenna could have said. Not a single one of them would have made a bit of sense. So she waited.

“And you didn’t know about me until you read this diary?”

“No. I swear.”

“But that was…what was it you said? A few months ago?”

She almost smiled. “You don’t miss a single detail, do you?”

He didn’t smile back. “That’s why they paid me the big bucks.”

“It took a while to locate you,” she said and left it at that.

Hank was quiet for a moment or two, although Jenna could sense the tension writhing inside him. “Thought women were real funny about diaries. Reading someone else’s, I mean.”

“I wouldn’t have touched it while Sandy was alive, even if I’d known of its existence. But my sister was an enigma, to put it mildly.” She sighed. “Look, Blair thinks Sandy died from an overdose. Which is technically true. What she doesn’t know is that it was apparently deliberate.” Hank swore; Jenna went on. “So I thought maybe the diary would give me an insight or two into who the hell she was. Why she was so obviously unhappy. The last thing I expected was to stumble across a name she refused to reveal for thirteen years.”

Hank set the photograph on the table, then dragged his hand down his face. “I’m having a little trouble here…”