Second To None. Muriel Jensen

Veronica Callahan had a very open and innocent face—wide—eyed, pink-lipped and apple-cheeked. But he’d once arrested a woman who’d looked that innocent after having shot her boyfriend and their landlady’s daughter because they’d spoken to each other on the apartment stairs.

      “I apologized,” he reminded Colette.

      She laughed and gave his arm a squeeze. “So you did.” She angled her head toward the kitchen. “Want to join us? We’re going to talk about setting up her day care center in the barn. This was the best place to meet, since the house and the winery are both so busy. I unlocked the back door for her when I went to pick up the pastries.” She smiled coaxingly. “You can share my coffee.”

      He shook his head. The day care center. He’d hoped Tate and Shea would change their minds about that. “No, thanks. I’ve got lots to do.”

      “Oh, come on,” Colette wheedled. “If you listen to Veronica’s plans, it might put some of your fears to rest.”

      “Fears?” Veronica asked. She took a step toward Mike as he started to leave. “About what?”

      He really didn’t want to go through this again. He’d argued with his brothers until he was hoarse about the incompatibility of a day care center with a winery. But they didn’t see the problem, and he’d finally given up in exasperation.

      “This is a winery,” he said simply. “How smart is it to have children here?”

      “You mean legally? I checked. As long as we don’t give the children wine, we’re all right. And, of course, I don’t intend to do that. Apart from that, I think children would love this setting. It’s so beautiful—”

      “We’re several miles out of town. Who’s going to bring their children here?”

      “All the people,” she replied, “on their way to work in Portland.” She pointed in the direction of the road at the bottom of the hill. “It’s a perfect location. Lots of outdoor space, and Rachel’s animals.” When he expressed surprise that she knew about Aunt Rachel’s menagerie, she added a little defensively, “Colette and I have met in Portland a couple of times. She’s been telling me all about the compound.”

      Mike knew it was futile to argue with two women allied in a common cause. He smiled politely at Veronica Callahan, then at Colette, and excused himself.

      He walked to the winery at the opposite end of the compound. On the first level, Armand Beaucharnp, Colette’s father, was seated at an old desk near the door. He looked up from a supplies catalog to wave at Mike.

      “Good morning, Armand,” Mike called as he ran up the stairs.

      Two-thirds of the winery’s second level was a storage area that would one day be used for bottles and labels, but which now stood empty. The other third was an office with movable partitions that allowed space for individual or group projects.

      Tate sat at a desk in the corner, the wall beside him decorated with framed photographs his teenage daughters had sent from Paris. Interspersed were photos of Colette and her little girls.

      Mike grabbed the back of his own chair and pulled it over beside Tate’s. He sat down and began without preamble. “You still think a day care in the barn is a good idea?”

      Tate concentrated one extra moment on the letter he was reading, then focused on Mike, an eyebrow raised. “Yeah. You said you were okay with it.”

      “No.” He was surprised Tate had distilled his protest down to that. “You just wouldn’t see it my way, so I told you to do whatever you wanted. But this is a winery, Tate. We make booze, for God’s sake. Who’s going to bring their children to a day care where they make booze?”

      Tate gazed at Mike in silence, then shook his head. “You know, for the person in charge of public relations, you have a scary concept of what we do here. We don’t make ‘booze,’ we make fine table wine—or we will, as soon as we get a harvest—and this is a beautiful place to which tourists bring their children every afternoon to walk the grounds and pet Rachel’s animals. Why wouldn’t other children be safe and happy here?”

      “Those kids are visiting. When this Callahan woman brings kids here, they’ll be around all day, every day. It just seems like an awkward blend of enterprises to me.”

      Tate leaned back in his chair as though something had just become obvious to him. “She’ll be responsible for the children. You don’t have to be concerned with them. She has credentials as long as your arm.”

      Mike frowned at him. “Come on, Tate. When kids are underfoot, every adult in the vicinity is concerned with them. And in a couple of weeks you and Colette and the girls are leaving for your honeymoon, so who’s going to be responsible for what happens around here? I am.”

      Tate was wearing the expression that meant he was going to get paternal on him. The only thing that drove Mike insane about this man—for whom he’d die in minute—was that even now, when they were in their thirties, Tate could turn into the Big Brother.

      “Well, I’d like to be able to promise you you’ll never have to be responsible for another child’s safety again, but you’ve got to know that isn’t realistic.”

      Mike shot him a severe look. “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking—”

      Tate, however, had taught him the look and gave as good as he got. “Yes, you are,” he interrupted. “You’ve learned to live around it, but it still affects every decision you make about your future. Because you’re a conscientious and sensitive individual, you’re holding yourself responsible for that woman and those kids, and that’s self-destructive. Not to mention completely unnecessary.”

      Mike opened his mouth to dispute the analysis, but Tate raised a hand to stop him. “I know,” he said. “You explained to me it’s not really that you’re assuming the blame, but that when something so awful happens, the survivors feel responsible anyway. The department shrink told you the situation was already hopeless when they called you in.”

      “Nothing’s ever hopeless,” Mike insisted moodily. “Otherwise, what’s the point of trying to negotiate a hostage situation in the first place?”

      Tate nodded. “But when somebody’s drugged out, the whole equation’s distorted. You’re trying to bring reason to a situation when you’re operating on a different plane of reality. As hopeful as you want to be, I’m sure sometimes you know it’s just not going to happen.”

      God. Mike had always thought memories lived in your head, but this one had taken root right in the middle of his chest. Every breath he drew had to go around it. Every emotion he experienced had to elbow the memory aside.

      “Look,” Mike said reasonably. “I got into this winery thing with you and Shea because I was ready to take my life in a new.direction. But having a day care in the middle of our—”

      “Won’t be at all like a hostage situation,” Tate finished for him. “Come on, Mike. You’ve got to confront this. You can start fresh, but not by hiding from what you left behind.”

      Mike ran a hand over his face. “Yeah, well, for the moment at least, I’d like to try it. That barn’s going to take six men a month to make habitable.”

      “The crew is going to power-wash it and give it a quick white spray. According to Colette, Veronica thinks the barn’s the perfect size because she can bring playground equipment inside in the winter. The guys’ll put up a few walls inside and install a furnace, but she’s doing all the painting and decorating. In return, she has two months rent-free. Every building on this place has to pay its way. I’m just trying to protect your investment.”

      Mike sat up in his chair. “Well, then you’d better double-check and triple-check all her references, because she seems a little flaky to me. She was sliding down the banister when I walked into the B-and-B.”

      Tate laughed as he handed him a sheet of paper. “You’re