Child of His Heart. Joan Kilby
he thought suddenly. He didn’t say it aloud in case she became more embarrassed or even indignant. But if true, it would confirm what he hoped—that she was attracted to him, too. “See you later, then.”
He’d started walking toward the fire station when she called, “Nick?”
He turned on his heel. “Yes?”
“If you’ve got a minute, come with me to my sister’s office. I’ll show you on a map where Granddad’s fishing hole is.”
He grinned. “Great.”
“On one condition,” she warned. “Don’t tell anyone else.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“YOU AND YOUR CLOCKS,” Gran said, settling into her armless chair by the window in the living room. She dug through her needlework bag while Erin went around the room carefully winding her most prized possessions.
“You don’t mind them, do you, Gran? I’ll turn the chimes off at night if they keep you awake.” She had three mantel clocks and four wall clocks—minus the one she’d taken to the bank and not counting her bedside clock. The grandfather in the hallway made seven at home. Seven sets of chimes ringing through the big house every hour on the hour.
“The chimes don’t bother me, and I find the ticking soothing,” Gran said, pulling out a large square of tapestry with an intricate pattern depicting a stag in a forest. “The two you left behind when you went to New York years ago kept me company and reminded me of you.”
Erin started to sit in one of the overstuffed wing chairs opposite the fireplace. “Did you take your blood pressure medicine after dinner?”
“I don’t need that stuff—”
“Yes, you do.” Erin went to the kitchen, poured a glass of water from the jug in the fridge and grabbed the bottle containing Gran’s medicine from the counter. Back in the living room she handed it to her grandmother and stood over her while she took it. “I came back to take care of you and that’s what I’m going to do.”
“Bully,” Gran said mildly, but she swallowed the tablets.
“It’s for your own good.” Erin smiled fondly at her. “How many times did you say that to me when I was growing up?”
“You never liked taking medicine, either. Not even those flavored children’s pain relievers Kelly popped into her mouth like candy.” Gran smiled as she threaded green yarn through a large needle.
“She used to sneak them when you were in the garden.”
“Did she think I didn’t know that? You girls were a handful. There was fourteen months between each of you, but you behaved more like triplets.”
“True,” Erin said. “Whatever one of us did, the others followed. Piano lessons, Girl Scouts, basketball…”
The chiming clocks drowned out her words. It was seven o’clock on a Friday night. If she were in Seattle she’d be getting dressed to go out to dinner with John or to a club with friends. Erin pulled back the lace curtain to gaze out the window at Linden Street. It was one of those golden late-summer evenings when the light fades slowly and children play outside till long past their normal bedtime.
“Why don’t you call up one of your old friends?” Gran said. “Laura Emerson still lives over on Vermont Street.”
Erin heard a tiny meow at her feet and bent to pick up Chloe, rubbing the kitten’s soft fur against her cheek. “Not tonight. I’ve still got the laundry to do. And I’m a little tired.”
She was very tired, in fact. Unusually so. The week had seemed long what with adjusting to her new job and settling in. She wondered what Nick was doing right now. Sitting on his deck on the water enjoying the fine evening? Out on a date? The thought rankled unexpectedly.
“Is Granddad’s fishing gear still in the garage, Gran?”
“I expect it is.” Gran glanced at her with mild curiosity. “Planning on going fishing?”
“Sometime. Maybe.” Part of Erin wished she were going with Nick tomorrow. He made her laugh, and she’d had far too few laughs in recent months. But getting to know him would complicate her relationship with John and distract her from caring for Gran.
“I hear our new fire chief is a keen fisherman.” Gran’s fingers dexterously pushed the needle in and out of the tapestry. “What did Kelly say his name was again?”
“Nick Dalton. I ran into him at Rosa’s the other day. I told him where he could find Granddad’s fishing hole.”
“I see.” The older woman’s mouth curled into a knowing smile.
“It’s not like that, Gran. I was just being neighborly to a newcomer.”
Gran tied off the green and reached for a ball of yellow yarn. “Whatever you say, dear.”
“RISE AND SHINE.” Nick rapped on Miranda’s shut door. “It’s six o’clock.”
A loud groan issued from the bedroom. “I can’t believe you’re making me go fishing.”
“Oh, come on. You love it, you just can’t admit it.” He leaned on the doorjamb and inspected his nails while he waited for the biting reply.
“Yeah, right.”
Nick set his head on one side judiciously. “The contemptuous tone is outstanding, but the verbal display fails to dazzle,” he said, mimicking the patter of a sports commentator. A second later her slipper hit the door. Nick chuckled. It was either laugh or yell, and he disliked yelling, even though sometimes she goaded him into it. The only way to deal with Miranda and emerge sane was to tease her into doing what she was supposed to do. A mention of forthcoming treats never hurt, either. “Fish with me today, and next week we’ll go into Seattle and get you some school clothes.”
“I don’t want to go to school.” Her token grumble sounded muffled beneath her pillow.
“You’re a little old for that line. If you want breakfast before we go you’d better get up now.” Then he walked off before she could make another smart remark. These “discussions” could go on endlessly, and although a little was amusing, too much was not.
“Why are you in such a good mood?” she demanded ten minutes later over the scrambled eggs he’d set before her.
“Must be your charming company—which I miss, by the way.” Nick took his own plate to the sink. Outside the window, beyond the river, the sun had risen above the distant mountains. Water lapped at the edge of the deck from the wake of a passing gillnetter, gulls screeching noisily. “You’ve been on your own all week and this is a chance for us to do something together.”
She scooped some egg onto her fork. “Fishing is boring.”
“You didn’t think so the time you caught a salmon up in British Columbia.” He filled a thermos with freshly brewed coffee and tipped the remainder into his cup.
“I didn’t know any better,” she said. “I was only ten.”
“A mere child,” he agreed. In so many ways she still was. But once again he acknowledged how her heart-shaped face and green eyes were rapidly maturing and her developing bust and hips made her look less like a child every day. Certainly less like his child and more like her mother’s. And once again his stomach constricted as the memory of Janine’s deathbed confession came to mind like a recurring nightmare. Had she told the truth when she’d said their daughter might not be his—or had she only wanted to hurt him?
“What day are we going shopping?” Miranda asked.
“Next Saturday.” He sipped his coffee. “Maybe Erin can suggest some good stores.”
“Who’s Erin? That woman you were with in