Читать книгу One Man's Promise - Diana Whitney - Страница 10

Chapter Two

“I can have the revisions done by the end of the week.” Shifting the telephone, Richard spread the curled blueprint over his drafting table, readjusted the corner tape to hold it flat. “The changes you’re suggesting shouldn’t have more than a minimal impact on cost—”

“Daddy!”

“But I’ll run the new specs through the computer and give you an update—”

“Daa-ddy!”

“In a day or so.” Richard sighed as Lissa stomped into the secluded den that served as his architectural office. “Listen, Jay, can I get back to you on this? Thanks.”

“Ragsy won’t play with me,” Lissa announced as soon as he’d cradled the receiver. “He won’t play dress-up or chase his ball or do anything ’cept sit on the back of Gramps’s chair with that dumb Frisbee in his mouth and look out the window.”

Richard swiveled on his drafting stool, and squeezed the back of his aching neck. As he opened his mouth to speak, one of a half-dozen antique clocks displayed throughout the office began to chime the half hour. Seconds later another chimed in, then another. The sound soothed Richard, offered a moment of calm retreat. He loved clocks, particularly the old ones, with rich embellishments, gilded etchings and intricate carvings crafted by long-ago artists who took pride in their work. His collection of such treasures was a source of great joy to him, and he could spend hours restoring a neglected piece to its original luster.

After a few seconds, the clocks fell silent, and Richard returned his attention to the sulking child beside his drafting stool. His voice was firm, but not particularly convincing. “Lissa, you know you’re not supposed to interrupt me while I’m working.”

She poked her lip out, folded her arms. “I want to play with Rags.”

Heaving a frustrated sigh, Richard motioned his daughter over, pulled her into his lap. “Rags doesn’t want to play right now, punkin. He’s feeling sad.”

Lissa’s lip quivered, then clamped in anger. “It’s that mean lady’s fault. Gramps even said so.”

With some effort, Richard kept an impassive expression. Thompson McCade was rich, powerful, smoothly controlling and as devoted to his grandchild as was the man’s timid, beleaguered wife. Richard considered his father-in-law a tyrannical bully, but had always kept that opinion to himself out of respect for his wife’s memory, and because he didn’t want to alienate Lissa from her grandparents’ love and attention.

Now, as always, Richard tried to straddle a fine line between supporting McCade’s inappropriate blame-mongering, and openly contradicting his daughter’s beloved Gramps. “I can understand your grandfather’s concern, punkin. He hates to see you upset. But you have to remember that Gramps hasn’t met Ms. Moray, so he’s really not in a position to comment on her motives. I believe she only wants what’s best for Rags, and for you, too.”

“I don’t care. I hate her.”

“That’s not a nice thing to say.”

“Well, I do hate her, I do. She’s trying to steal my dog and I just wish she’d dry up and die.”

“That’s enough.” Speaking sternly enough to startle his daughter into attention, Richard enforced his position. “It’s okay for you to feel bad, and it’s okay for you to be angry, but it’s not okay for you to say mean things about people even when they’re not around to hear them.”

“But it’s not fair,” Lissa wailed. “Ragsy is my dog.” Pulling away from her father’s embrace, the child leapt down, kicked at a cardboard blueprint tube lying beside the drafting table. “He was real happy before she showed up, and now he won’t eat or play or do anything at all. He’s no fun anymore, and it’s all her fault.”

After emphasizing her pique with another kick at the hapless mailing tube, Lissa spun on her heel and marched out. A moment later, her bedroom door slammed.

Richard pushed away the contract file with which he’d been working, leaned back on his stool and rubbed his eyelids until they stung. As annoyed as he was with his father-in-law’s interference, he still couldn’t blame Lissa for feeling helpless and frustrated, particularly when he felt that way himself.

Ever since C. J. Moray’s less than fortuitous appearance, Rags had shown every symptom of an animal grieving himself sick. The poor little dog had eaten nothing for four days now, and even the neatly packed box of toys, bowls and other doggy belongings that had mysteriously arrived on the front porch hadn’t helped dissuade the animal’s melancholy mood. If anything, the pooch seemed even sadder, carrying the pathetic Frisbee in his mouth as he wandered from room to room, then returned to his vigil at the front window and stared dolefully outside as if awaiting his mistress’s return.

Yesterday Richard had decided a romp in the neighborhood park would perk Rags up. The moment the front door opened, the dog had shot to the very spot in the front yard where C. J. Moray had been standing, then followed her scent to the curb. Had the animal not been leashed, there was no doubt in Richard’s mind that Rags would have chased the scent as far as possible in pursuit of the mistress he had never forgotten, and still clearly adored.

Rags was obviously heartbroken. Richard feared the stoic little pooch would grieve himself to death, and was convinced that something had to be done. He’d already formulated a plan. Lissa wouldn’t like it, of course.

But she’d like the alternative even less.

The dance studio was situated in a tidy corner of a bustling strip mall, the kind where neighborhood residents gathered for groceries, a quick video rental, or to peruse the aisles of a local bookstore. Richard parked, paused outside the studio’s glass front to read a few posted flyers announcing beginning ballet lessons, tap dance classes and the like.

He swallowed a guilty twinge. Lissa had always wanted to take ballet lessons. The request had been denied, as had her desire to participate in playground softball and other such athletic endeavors, because Richard was worried such physical exertion would exacerbate her asthma.

Lissa’s asthma was no joke. She’d nearly died twice, and had been hospitalized more times than Richard could count. Doctors hoped the condition would ease as she matured, but so far there’d been no perceptible improvement. Attacks came on suddenly, without warning, and could escalate to life-threatening proportions with hideous speed. It was a terrifying situation, not for the faint of heart.

Lissa’s mother hadn’t been able to deal with the terror, the helpless horror of watching her only child slip to the edge of death time and time and time again. Richard had understood his wife’s fear. He’d even understood her guilt, and the secret sense of failure at having given birth to a frail and sickly child. What Richard hadn’t understood, still couldn’t understand, was why a mother, any mother, would give up on her own child by giving up on herself.

Despite years of emotional withdrawal during which Richard and his wife had become virtual strangers, he’d been nonetheless shattered by her death.

Now he gazed into the glass window, his own reflection revealing the bitterness of that memory. It hurt. It would always hurt. He’d failed as a husband. He was determined not to fail as a father.

Squaring his shoulders, he yanked open the dancestudio door and walked into chaos.

Beyond the partitioned entry, blaring music vibrated the walls, the floor and his back molars. Bongos bonged, cymbals crashed, tambourines tonated in a wild calypso cantata that was part Caribbean reggae and part “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies,” with a jarring jab of New Orleans jazz tossed in for good measure.

Richard would have hocked everything he owned for a sturdy set of earplugs.

Above the deafening musical fray was a voice, sharp, firm and familiar. “And one and two... twirl, twirl... hands high, Shelly, reach for the sky...that’s good, very good. And bend, twist, and bend and twist... come on, fairies, high on your toes, stretch those arms...fluid, graceful, hands flutter like fairy wings.”

Sidling along the partition, Richard chanced a peek into the heart of the bustling studio, where over a dozen exuberant youngsters pirouetted through choreographed routines. In the center, a sleek blonde in black leotards accented by a hot-pink-and-fuchsia thong darted around the dancers, clapping rhythm with her hands and occasionally pausing to straighten a child’s saggy shoulder, or lift a droopy chin.

To Richard’s astonishment, the blond instructor paused in the center of the melee, where a young girl in a wheelchair extended swaying arms in the air. “Marty, Susan, take Shelly’s chair now and turn slowly, slowly.... Shelly, hon, keep those arms high, hands graceful...that’s wonderful!” The instructor clapped quickly now, increasing the pace. “The dragon is coming, the dragon is coming! Fairies leap, leap, drop to a crouch. Shelly, cower in fear... turn the chair faster, girls, faster, faster... that’s it, terrific....”

She spun toward the sidelines, where a rhythm section of youngsters perched anxiously on the edge of their seats clutching a variety of tambourines, shakers and bongo drums. “Dragon is—” she pointed at a pale boy with a pair of cymbals held at the ready “—here!”

The youngster slammed his cymbals together with a proud, gap-toothed grin.

“Curtain!” The instructor threw up her arms as the music ceased abruptly. “Wonderful class, you were all just perfect!”

A din of happy voices erupted as children scampered—or rolled—toward a scatter of adults, presumably proud parents, seated in a makeshift gallery of folding chairs surrounding a refreshment table. The rhythm section dropped their instruments, blasted across the room to attack the cookie-and-juice buffet with gusto appropriate to a pack of sweaty, starving prepubescents.

And in the center of bustling activity, C. J. Moray dabbed her face with a towel, listening to the excited ramblings of a small, dark-haired princess who was apparently so enthused by her own performance that she felt compelled to review each step of it in painful detail. Ms. Moray listened as if raptly fascinated, offering affirmative nods and bright smiles that left the little girl puffed with pride, and clearly thrilled.

Under other circumstances the child’s joy would have been mesmerizing, but it was the woman upon whom Richard’s attention was riveted. Her face was flushed and glowing, with damp blond tendrils clinging to her cheeks likes strands of gleaming gold. Eyes like sparkling amber wine, a smile bright as a sun-drenched rose garden, a laugh so husky and melodic that it warmed his blood and sent chills marching down his spine at the same time.

Richard couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Suddenly her smile hesitated, her eyes clouded. A pucker of sensation touched her brow. She looked up, met his gaze, held it. Time stopped. A minute. Two. Ten. He didn’t know, didn’t care. For those moments, those indefinable instants of eternity, nothing else existed but this woman, this incredibly beautiful woman whose mesmerizing gaze sucked the breath from his body, drained the reason from his mind.

He was aware of her subtle movement, noticed when she touched the child’s shoulder, murmured something that sent the girl scampering happily away. He knew he should do something, say something, but was rooted in place, helpless as an insect pinned to a corkboard.

She studied him a moment longer, then draped the towel around her neck, glided toward him so gracefully he wondered if her feet actually touched the floor. The leotard left nothing to the imagination, revealing a swell of round breasts, a sleek torso with hips that rolled smoothly as she moved, legs long and strong enough to wrap a man’s body and lift him straight to heaven.

A smile touched her lips, lush lips, devoid of artificial color yet naturally pink, pearlescent, enticingly moist. The lips moved. “Mr. Matthews, what a pleasant surprise.”

Richard wanted to respond. He really did. His brain told his mouth to speak, commanded it to do so, but there must have been some kind of short circuit, because to his horror he felt his head jerk in a cruel caricature of a nod.

She cocked her head, regarded him with a mixture of amusement and anxiety. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Yes.” The word slid out on a breath, the poignant sigh of a lovestruck adolescent. He coughed, cleared his throat and yanked his gaze away, concentrating on the pandemonium of scampering youngsters until he felt the peculiar numbness seep from his mind. “This is not what I expected.”

She studied him a moment more, then followed his gaze. “It’s a little crazier than usual. Things get wild the week before a recital.”

He chose not to correct her errant assumption that he’d been referring to the dance class rather than his unanticipated physiological response. “I’m surprised at the, er, variety of participants.”

“We try to integrate special needs children in our regular dance classes. Shelly—” she nodded toward the laughing child in the wheelchair “—was born with a spinal defect. She can’t walk, but as you may have noticed, she’s an excellent dancer.”

“She did seem to be enjoying herself.”

“But—?”

He chanced a look, recognized the question in her eyes. “I’ll admit I was surprised to see how well the other children accepted her.”

“Unless taught otherwise, children are naturally accepting of people’s differences. Besides, many of our students have limitations of one kind or another, although they might not be as noticeable as Shelly’s. Donna, for example—” she nodded toward a tall girl wearing a colorful paisley scarf “—is undergoing chemotherapy. The treatment saps her strength, so we’ve choreographed a part for her that requires minimal stamina and endurance. That way she can continue to participate with her friends, and isn’t made to feel different.”

“But she is different,” Richard noted, stunned that the girl’s parents would allow such strenuous activity. “She’s a very sick child.”

“Yes, she is.” C.J. grasped the towel hem with both hands, shifted her stance to angle a sideways glance at Richard. “Even sick children need to belong. They need friends, and fun, and the joy of accomplishment.”

“They need care and treatment.” The response was more forceful than intended, although C.J. neither flinched nor disputed it.

“I require a medical release from all my students,” she said. “If a child has special needs, I consult with his or her physician on a lesson plan that is within medical guidelines.” Snapping the draped towel, she suddenly spun to face him with a gaze so acute he squirmed at its intensity. “But I suspect you didn’t drive all the way across town to discuss dance lessons.”

“Ah, no.”

Her eyes widened. “Is Rags all right? Oh, God, the skateboard. There’s been an accident, hasn’t there? Is it bad?” She flung the towel away, dashed to a coatrack in the foyer. “Where is he, what vet hospital do you use—?”

“There hasn’t been an accident.” Richard caught up with her at the front door, grasped her elbow as she was struggling into her jacket. “Rags is fine.”

Her arms fell limp, her eyes filled with relieved moisture. “He’s not hurt?”

“No.”

She touched her face, closed her eyes. “Thank God.” A shuddering sigh, a moment to compose herself, then she squared her shoulders, cast him a curious glance. “Then why are you here?”

“Well, it does have to do with Rags, I’m afraid. Is there somewhere we could talk?”

Behind the closed doors of the tiny, cluttered office that had once been a janitorial closet, CJ. rested a hip on the edge of her wobbly desk, and frowned. “Let me get this straight, you’re offering me joint custody of Rags?”

“Not exactly.” Richard jerked as the folding chair shifted, then leaned forward, planting his hands on his knees as if preparing to leap should the unsteady seating device suddenly collapse. “More precisely, I’m suggesting a visitation arrangement, specific schedules whereby you and Rags could, er, spend time together.”

“And you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart?”

He appeared stung by the inference. “Contrary to popular belief, I am not utterly devoid of feelings. Clearly, you’re fond of the animal and he, likewise, is fond of you.” His gaze darted, and the subtle slide of presumably damp palms over his slacks did not escape notice. “A change in ownership is traumatic for any pet. I thought regular visits might lessen his anxiety.”

C.J. nodded. “Rags has stopped eating, hasn’t he?”

Richard deflated before her eyes. “Yes.”

“How long?”

“Four days.”

She sucked a shocked breath, let the air out with a hiss. “Four days? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m telling you now.” His gaze narrowed. “Has he done this sort of thing before?”

She nodded absently, chewed her lip. “It’s his way of pouting.”

“You could have warned me.”

Flinching at the reproach, C.J. offered a limp shrug. “It didn’t occur to me. I mean, he’d already been with you for weeks and there hadn’t been a problem.” She raked her hair, wished the office was large enough for her to pace. “When can I see him?”

Richard stood, smoothed the suit coat that made him look considerably more dapper than the saggy jogging suit he’d worn over the weekend. She had to admit he’d cleaned up nicely. Very nicely.

He offered a brusque nod. “You can see him whenever it’s convenient.”

“My last class ends at six. I could be at your place by half-past.” When another curt nod indicated the timing was acceptable, C.J. broached a more sensitive subject. “What does Lissa think of this arrangement?”

With a pained shrug, he shifted to avoid her gaze. “Lissa loves Rags. She will do what is best for him.”

As he reached for the doorknob, C.J. touched his wrist. Her fingertips brushed bare skin, tingled at a tickle of soft hair. “Thank you,” she whispered.

His eyes darkened, black pupils expanding inside a ring of soft heather sage. For a long moment he said nothing, simply stared with an intensity that left her breathless. Then he blinked, nodded, opened the door and was gone.

C.J. stood there, vaguely aware that her knees were trembling. She touched her mouth, transferred the tingling from her fingertips to her lips. In a sense, it was their very first kiss. It would not, she decided, be their last.

Woman-and-dog reunion part deux was every bit as exuberant and joyful as the first had been. Rags shot out the front door barking madly, leapt into C.J.’s arms and covered her face with familiar wet kisses. C.J. laughed and sputtered, hugged his wriggling body so tightly it was a wonder the poor animal’s eyes didn’t bulge.

Richard Matthews watched from the open doorway with a peculiar look on his face, while his clearly heartbroken daughter stared through the front window with wide and haunting eyes. The image was pitifully sad and sobering.

C.J. gave Rags another hug, then whispered, “Go get your Frisbee.” The dog leapt down, dashed between Richard’s legs and disappeared into the house. Although C.J. spoke to Richard, she couldn’t take her eyes off the tearful child in the window. “I thought I’d take him for a run in the park, if that’s all right.”

“That’s fine,” Richard murmured, but C.J. wasn’t listening. She was mesmerized by Lissa’s pale face, the small, quivering mouth and eyes filled with yearning for a childhood denied her.

Just as childhood had once been denied another young girl. Images of the past marched through her memory, a thoughtful reflection of that other lonely youngster who’d watched from a sickroom window as her father and siblings played ball in the front yard. She remembered the pain, the longing, the resentment that festered into fury. She remembered the rage, the uncontrollable anger lashing out at those she’d loved the most.

Most of all, she remembered the loneliness.

Because C.J.’s own childhood, like little Lissa’s, had been one of isolation, medication and excessive parental protection. It had been a loving prison, but a prison nonetheless, and she’d spent her adult years overcoming—some would say overcompensating for all those lonely years and lost adventures.

Now C.J. saw herself in the reflection of the sad child behind the window. She understood how it felt to read terror in a parent’s eyes, to be shunned by other children. To be different.

She knew, she understood and her heart broke for that lonely little girl. And for this one.

“It is an outrage.” Clearly furious, Thompson McCade tapped the bowl of his pipe on a crystal ashtray. “You disappoint me, Richard.”

“I did what was necessary.”

“Necessary?” The imposing man strode across the room, seated himself in the extravagant recliner that he’d claimed as his own, and bit down on the stem of the unlit pipe so hard his teeth clicked. He fumed a moment before removing the pipe and cradling the unlit bowl in his palm. “Since when is it necessary to put the superficial desires of a stranger above the needs of your own child? Allissa is devastated by your callous disregard of her feelings, Richard, and quite frankly, so am I. Melinda would be horrified—”

“That’s enough,” Richard said quietly, although his jaw twitched in warning.

A vein pulsed on McCade’s forehead. “How dare you speak to me like that? Melinda was my daughter, my only child—”

“She was my wife.” With some effort, Richard unfurled his fisted fingers, reminded himself that his daughter was in the kitchen with her grandmother, close enough to overhear. He lowered his voice. “I’ve asked you before, and I’m asking you again to refrain from using Lissa’s mother as a club with which to beat me into submission each and every time we have a disagreement. I’m perfectly willing to listen to your opinions, Thompson, but Lissa is my daughter, and I will make the final decision as to what is or is not in her best interest.”

A flush of red fury crawled from McCade’s beefy neck to a face flexing with indignation. He was an impressive man, barrel-chested and large in stature, with a thick shock of gunmetal gray hair and a bulbous nose that would have been clownish if not for the piercing, pitiless intensity of eyes that demanded respect, but rarely bestowed it. Thompson McCade was not accustomed to argument. He was a man to be reckoned with, ruthless, relentless and powerful.

He was also a royal pain in the butt.

“I’ve made my decision,” Richard repeated calmly. “Either Lissa learns to share her pet, or she’ll have to give him up entirely. The choice is hers.”

“That is grossly unfair.” McCade’s face darkened to a worrisome purple. “I won’t allow it.”

Richard heaved a weary shrug, chose not to point out that when it came to this home and this family, McCade was not in a position to allow or disallow anything. The older man clearly understood that, although ego prevented him from acknowledging any limitation of the power upon which his entire self-image had been built.

So Richard let his father-in-law sputter and rant without contradiction. He didn’t agree with the man’s point of view, but he didn’t exactly disagree with it, either.

In truth, Richard didn’t care for the current situation any more than McCade. He loved his daughter dearly, understood how wounded she was by her pet’s affection for the athletic blonde with a pocket full of dog biscuits and a boisterous laugh that McCade would most certainly label as bohemian. Richard hated to see his child so unhappy, but he certainly couldn’t disregard the needs of a helpless animal. It wasn’t Rags’s fault that Lissa was overindulged and selfish. In a sense, it wasn’t Lissa’s fault, either. Richard blamed himself.

“Daddy?”

Richard blinked, turned just as Lissa scampered from the kitchen to clamber into her grandfather’s lap.

She beamed hopefully. “Do I get Rags back, Daddy, do I, huh, do I?”

From the corner of his eye he saw Sarah McCade hovering shyly in the kitchen doorway, wringing her wrinkled hands. “Of course you get Rags back, punkin, just as soon as Ms. Moray returns from the park.”

“Then I won’t ever have to share him again, right, Daddy?”

Richard sighed as McCade’s eyes narrowed in warning. “We’ve already been through this, Lissa. Ms. Moray will be visiting with Rags two evenings a week, and have him all day Saturday.”

Horrified, the child spun on her grandfather’s lap. “But you promised, Gramps, you promised that you’d make Daddy give me my dog back.”

To Richard’s surprise, Sarah McCade, who rarely said anything beyond “good morning,” and even then felt guilty about verbalizing the observation, suddenly stepped forward. “Sweetheart, we talked about this in the kitchen. You don’t want your doggy to be sad or sick, do you?”

The child’s chin jutted stubbornly. Tears leaked from her eyes. “Gramps promised.” A small wheeze, then a louder one followed by an interminable, rasping gasp.

Richard nearly moaned aloud.

“Look what you’ve done,” McCade boomed. “Now she’s having an attack. Sarah, get the child’s medication.”

The woman hovered frantically before dashing off to do her husband’s bidding. She’d barely left the room when her gasping granddaughter glimpsed a familiar form dashing across the front yard. “Rags!” the child shouted, then leapt from her grandfather’s lap and shot across the room, her asthma attack instantly and miraculously abated. She yanked open the front door, clapping gleefully. “Rags, Rags!”

The animal literally flew through the door,. greeted Lissa with a series of joyous kisses, then dashed into the kitchen. Lissa ran after him, nearly knocking into her bewildered grandmother, who’d just emerged clutching the child’s inhaler.

Richard stood, offered his mother-in-law a thin smile. “Thank you, Sarah, but apparently Lissa is feeling much better now.”

On cue, Lissa leaned out of the doorway with an exploding grin. “Rags is eating, Daddy, he’s gobbling up everything in his dish!”

“That’s nice, punkin,” Richard murmured, distracted by the breathless woman hovering in the doorway with a grass-stained Frisbee clutched in one hand. He took a step toward her, jerked to a stop as Sarah McCade hurried past, gushing.

“You must be Ms. Moray,” she murmured, pumping the startled woman’s free hand. “I’m so happy to meet you. I’m Lissa’s grandmother—”

“Sarah!” McCade boomed.

The woman flushed, fell silent, backed away clasping her hands as McCade studied C. J. Moray with undisguised contempt. “So you’re the one.” There was no mistaking the disdain in his voice.

To her credit, C.J. cocked her head as though sizing the older man up, then offered a smile that was somehow sincere and cautious at the same time. “You must be Lissa’s grandfather. I’m pleased to meet you.”

Richard stepped between them before McCade could say something even more blatantly rude. Cupping C.J.’s elbow, he ushered her to the porch. “I’m sorry about that. I wish I could tell you that beneath that gruff exterior beats a heart of gold, but the only thing beneath that gruff exterior is a gruff interior.”

Her laugh was soft, smoky. Enticing. “I understand.”

For some odd reason, he believed her. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For everything.” He was mesmerized by her smile, hypnotized by the amused sparkle in her dark eyes. This was without doubt the most intoxicating woman he’d ever laid eyes on. She was also the most perceptive, a thought that was soon to be proven yet again as she gazed past his shoulder.

The sparkle drained from her eyes, replaced by a tender warmth that was, oddly enough, even more alluring. “Hello, Lissa. It’s nice to see you again.”

With some effort Richard followed her gaze, saw his daughter on the porch looking sullen and angry. She jerked a thumb at the Frisbee C.J. held. “Leave that here,” she commanded. “It belongs to Rags.”

Still smiling, C.J. held the Frisbee out until Lissa stomped down the steps to retrieve it. “Is Rags the first dog you’ve owned?”

Lissa paused, issued a sharp nod that was more an expression of annoyance than agreement.

“Pets can be difficult, can’t they?” Lowering herself, C.J. sat on her heels so her face and the child’s were on the same level. “Having a dog is kind of like having a naughty child and an irritating kid brother all at the same time. Except, of course, my irritating kid brother never drank out of the toilet. At least, I don’t think so. He was pretty weird.”

Despite an obvious intent to remain angry, Lissa couldn’t prevent a smile from tweaking the corners of her tightly clamped mouth. “Do you have lots of brothers?”

“Two, one older than me and one younger. I also have two older sisters.”

“You musta had lots of fun playing and stuff.”

“Yes, we had fun. Sometimes we hurt each other’s feelings and made each other mad, but we never really meant to.” She paused a beat before adding, “Just like Rags never meant to hurt your feelings or make you mad. He loves you very much.”

The child’s lip quivered. “Then how come he wants to go play with you?”

“Because he loves me, too. Dogs have room in their hearts to love lots of people.”

“Uh-uh.” A look of disbelief.

“It’s true, cross my heart.” She drew an invisible X on her chest, flashed a dazzling smile. “You love Rags, don’t you?”

Lissa sniffed, nodded.

“And you love your daddy, too, just like you love your grandpa and your grandma?” C.J. waited for the child’s limp shrug. “How would you feel if someone told you that you had to choose only one of them to love, and you weren’t allowed to care about anyone else ever again?”

Another limp shrug. “Bad.”

“Of course you’d feel bad, but even more important, you wouldn’t be able to do it.” C.J. hesitated, then took the child’s hand, sandwiched it between her own palms. “You couldn’t stop loving your daddy or your grandparents just because someone told you to, and Rags can’t stop caring about me, either, but that doesn’t mean he loves you any less.”

To Richard’s astonishment, Lissa bent to whisper something in C.J.’s ear. The child smiled, then laughed. A moment later the two females were giggling madly, whispering like old chums. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it. His sullen, selfish child was engrossed in clearly joyful conversation with the very same woman she’d demonized only moments ago.

C.J. stood suddenly, skimmed a glance at Richard. “Rags and I are taking a nature hike on Saturday. Would it be all right if Lissa came along? You’re welcome, too, of course.”

“Please, Daddy? I wanna go, I really, really do. Please?”

Richard’s initial instinct was to refuse. Outings with Lissa were difficult, tension-filled affairs that must be tediously prepared for with medical precision. Still, there was something fascinating about C. J. Moray, her vibrancy and infectious zest for life, the ease with which she’d transformed his sulking daughter into a happy, hopeful child.

“Absolutely not!” Thompson McCade loomed in the doorway, red faced and furious. “I will not have my granddaughter traipsing through muck and mud until her lungs explode. I will not allow it.”

All doubts dissipated instantly. If McCade was dead set against something, then Richard was dead set in favor of it. He met his father-in-law’s angry stare with one of cold determination, but it was C.J. to whom he spoke. “What time Saturday?”