Her Daughter's Father. Anna Adams

on him again. From what I hear, she held her own.”

      “I can’t afford to see the humor.” Jack broke off, pleasantly surprised as Colleen pushed carefully through the shop door.

      A breeze lifted her honey-blond hair into her eyes. Impatiently she brushed it away with a furtive glance, as if she didn’t want anyone to see her without her purple rebellion.

      Jack’s relief evaporated. “I don’t think she gets it yet, either. Maybe I should have her thank India Stuart in person, too. It’s only polite, and admitting her mistake to a stranger might make her see how big it was.”

      AFTER THEY PUT AWAY THEIR equipment the next day, India and her father headed to the town square for an open-air market Mrs. Henderson had told them about. The local library sponsored a booth that sold used books. India stopped there first.

      “You’re new in town,” the woman behind the wooden counter said. “I’m Nell Fisher.”

      India held out her hand. “India Stuart. Mrs. Henderson told my father and me the market opens here every week.”

      “Yes.” The other woman waved a work-gloved hand at the people who strolled up and down the neat rows. Now that the weather had gone back to chilly normal, everyone wore coats that flapped around them and rubbed the wooden stalls. “We probably have something you’d like. I recommend Clem Tyler’s hydroponic tomatoes, and Reverend Goodling’s wife tats beautiful lace collars and cuffs, if you’re in the market.” An excellent saleswoman, she pointed over her shoulder, at a rocky lean-to with its back to her stall. “And, of course, the requisite tie-dyed-anything-you-ever-wanted-to-wear booth.”

      India laughed. “Do you always participate?”

      Mrs. Fisher nodded. “When I can get away. I don’t have an assistant just now, so I have to close up while I’m here, but I hope to turn a couple of the youngsters into patrons, while their parents shop for better prices than we can get in the stores out here. You’ll notice we don’t have room for a mall, and we pay the price for our isolation.”

      India picked up a dog-eared copy of Peter Pan. “Do you read to the children?”

      “If I gather a large enough crowd. You seem pretty interested.”

      India hesitated. Gossip ran both ways. Would a house-painting librarian make Colleen’s neighbors suspicious? But no, she and her father had agreed on what she should say, to cover her failings as a painter. She was helping him out, the best he could afford. “I usually work as a librarian. I’m on sabbatical, and my father needed a hand.”

      “Really?” Interest lit Mrs. Fisher’s eyes. “And how long do you plan to stay on the island?”

      “Depends.” India’s breath grew short. “We don’t know how much business we’ll find for my father.”

      “Maybe you’d like to help me out if you have some free time in the evenings. We have a volunteer program.” Mrs. Fisher lifted a stack of books onto the counter. “I just don’t have a volunteer to man it at the moment.”

      “Volunteer?”

      “Yes. Unless you’re too tired in the evenings?”

      “No.” Drawn to the work she loved best, India leaped at the chance for more contact with the people who lived in this community with Colleen. “I’d love to help. My father might be able to spare me for a couple of hours some days, too.”

      “Good. Drop by the library tomorrow—” Mrs. Fisher broke off as a gleaming car braked at the curb next to the stall.

      Hard to miss that car, or the girl who climbed out to stand, impossibly tall, unexpectedly uncertain. She’d washed that purple right out of her hair. With the palest brown cap of silky strands hugging her chin, she looked exactly like pictures of India’s mother at fifteen.

      India gripped the pole supporting the library booth. She should run for all their lives. This slender child, teetering on the razor blade of adolescence was definitely the daughter she’d given up.

      Warmth, as big and bright as the sun, and twice as powerful, exploded in India’s chest. She wrapped her arms around herself as if she could contain the astounding happiness that burst and blossomed to life inside her. She felt the same compulsion she’d had the day Colleen was born, to count all her fingers and toes, to make sure she was all right. And just as she hadn’t then, she couldn’t now. India moved her head from side to side. How could this happen?

      “Hi.” The girl twined her fingers in front of her. “My name is Colleen Stephens.”

      India managed a stunned nod. “I figured.” She cleared roughness from her throat. Her heart pounded a drum solo. “I met your father.”

      “He told me.” With an apparent eye for reinforcements, Colleen looked back at the car.

      Her reminder of the boy who waited behind the steering wheel dragged India back to reality in a heartbeat. “You came with him?” she asked before she knew she was going to.

      Colleen blushed. “Chris isn’t always like he was that night at the festival.” She swallowed hard and stared at Mrs. Fisher until the older woman moved to the back of her booth. Colleen thrust out her hand, offering to shake. “I just wanted to thank you.”

      India spiked a swift glance over Colleen’s shoulder. Did Jack know she was out with Chris? She took her daughter’s hand. It felt small and warm and totally vulnerable.

      Her heart contracted. Chris could hurt this child so easily, and she didn’t even recognize the danger. Protective instincts rose in India, as strong as if she’d raised Colleen from day one. Instincts she had to check.

      “Colleen!” A tall white-haired man’s sharp voice made the girl jump.

      “Grandpa,” she said, turning around.

      “I take it you’re with him?” The man tilted a contemptuous chin at Chris, and India swallowed a cheer.

      “You’re embarrassing me.” Colleen looked stealthy. “He’s not a bad guy.”

      Her grandpa shared India’s doubts, but he broadcast them, not caring Colleen had left the car door open. “Has that boy had anything to drink today?”

      “No.” A quick blush reddened her skin. “We had a Coke after school. He’s not like that.”

      “All the same, I’ll take you home.” The man looked at India. “You must be Miss Stuart.”

      “My grandfather, Hayden Mason.” Colleen rammed her hands into her pockets. “I’m not coming home with you, Grandpa. I’m old enough to take a ride from a friend without you calling the angst police.”

      “I have no idea who the angst police might be, young woman, but I’m taking you home. Say goodbye to Miss Stuart.”

      “India.”

      He looked startled, and India realized he welcomed her contribution to the conversation no more than his grand-daughter’s. “India, then. Colleen, I’m busy this afternoon. Come now.”

       Colleen twisted her mouth in a frown India recognized. It usually came just before her mother put her foot down so hard the house rumbled. But Colleen gathered her wits with a wary look at Mrs. Fisher. “Goodbye, Chris,” she called, a hint of panic edging her voice.

      Without another word, he yanked her door shut and squealed away on smoking tires. India planted her feet firmly on the ground, instead of comforting Colleen, who broke her heart with a forlorn expression.

      Colleen followed her stern grandparent as he turned, but she looked back at India. Defiance and a puzzled awareness struggled in her eyes. India dragged herself to her full height. If she couldn’t stay out of Colleen’s life without looking like a cyclone victim, she needed to leave. Colleen offered a halfhearted smile and lifted one hand that quickly flopped back to her side as her grandfather reached for her other sleeve.

      India