A Father for Zach. Irene Hannon

Zach propped his chin in his hand again and pressed a finger into his sandwich, creating dimples in the soft white bread. “It’s no fun to eat by yourself.”

      There was a cue here for her, Catherine realized. She could take it—invite this stranger to dine with her son—or remain silent and let him walk out. To eat alone.

      Two weeks ago, if someone had told her she’d even consider inviting a man she’d known for only three days to eat in her kitchen, she would have dismissed the comment as absurd. She didn’t trust easily. Not anymore. But Nathan had come to her via a respected E.R. doctor. And he’d done some work at a church, offered to give her the name of his pastor. As far as she was concerned, those were good character references.

      In her heart, however, she knew that wasn’t the only reason her attitude toward this man was softening. Even though she knew nothing about Nathan’s background, she couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow, in some way, they might be kindred spirits. And her instincts also told her that this man, who had charmed her son with his patience and kindness, possessed a gentle, caring spirit incapable of inflicting pain.

      When the silence lengthened, Nathan started to turn away. But not before she caught a flash of sorrow in his eyes that tugged at her soul. Again. And pricked her conscience. Again.

      This was her chance to try and make amends for the hurt her unfriendliness had inflicted at the wedding reception, she realized.

      “Wait!”

      He cast a glance over his shoulder.

      “If you’re hungry now, why don’t you eat with Zach? Unless you’d rather spend some time alone on your lunch break.”

      He gave a slight shake of his head, and gratitude softened those velvet-brown irises. “I’ve had plenty of time alone. I’d welcome some company over lunch.”

      His response intrigued her, but when he offered nothing else, she gestured to the refrigerator. “Help yourself to some soda. And there are a few homemade brownies left on that foil-covered plate on the counter. You and Zach can divide them up. Then it’s naptime for you, young man.”

      Zach scrunched up his face. “I hate naps. I’d rather help Nathan.”

      Leaning over, Nathan rested his forearms along the top of the chair back, putting him closer to eye-level with Zach. “I’m going to work on the ceiling this afternoon anyway, champ. You can help me again with the wallpaper tomorrow morning. How does that sound?”

      Was this a sudden change of plan? Catherine wondered. Designed to make the nap more palatable by reassuring her son he wouldn’t be missing anything? If so, she hoped Nathan’s psychology worked. She wasn’t up to any more battles today.

      “Okay, I guess.” Zach sounded more resigned than enthusiastic.

      To sweeten the pot, Catherine touched his hand. “I’m going to lie down this afternoon, too, for an hour or two. How about if we nap together?”

      His eyes brightened. “In your bed?”

      She’d hoped that would do the trick. Sleeping with Mom was a rare treat, and she didn’t bestow it often. The child psychologist had discouraged her from making it a habit, stressing the importance of returning to a normal routine as soon as possible. Besides, there were too many nights when she still woke up crying. Or shaking. Zach didn’t need to witness that.

      “Yes. In my bed.”

      “Cool!” Zach went back to eating with renewed enthusiasm. “You want to take a nap with us, too, Nathan? It might be a little crowded, but I bet we could all fit.”

      Heat surged on Catherine’s neck, and she made a pretense of adjusting the laces on her elevated hiking boot.

      “I have work to do, champ.”

      Nathan’s husky reply did nothing to quell the unexpected flurry of butterflies Zach’s comment had set off in her stomach. Fortunately he exited to retrieve his lunch, giving her a chance to compose herself. And when he returned, he kept the conversation focused on the remodeling project.

      Once lunch was finished and he and Zach had polished off all the remaining brownies, Nathan went back to work with a nod in her direction and a quiet thank-you for the dessert and soda.

      Fifteen minutes later, with Zach cuddled up beside her and already drifting off, her own eyelids began to grow heavy. Until a sudden realization drew her back from the brink of sleep.

      For the first time in two years, she hadn’t double-checked the locks on every door before lying down.

      Snuggling closer to Zach, she told herself she ought to get up and secure the house.

      But she didn’t.

      Because oddly enough, despite the presence of a stranger on her property, she felt safe.

      Chapter Four

      On Friday, as Nathan tapped the lid closed on the can containing the soft-ochre–colored paint Catherine had chosen for the psychedelic room, Zach planted his chubby hands on his hips and inspected the transformed space.

      “This looks real good, Nathan.”

      Standing, he did his own survey. And came to the same conclusion. Although the flooring still needed to be laid, the rest of the room was ready for decorating.

      “Thanks, champ. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

      A glow suffused the little boy’s face. “I like helping. Mom says I’m a good helper.”

      “She’s right. I’m going to run over to the house and tell her I’m leaving, okay?”

      “Okay. You want me to put your tools back in your toolbox while you’re gone?”

      Nathan scanned the room. One of his ground rules was that Zach wasn’t to touch any tool without asking permission. And the little boy had followed it to the letter. But nothing lethal was lying around. Just a hammer, a paint-can opener and a couple of screwdrivers. “Sure. I’ll be back in a minute.”

      As he exited the room, Nathan was pleased by the progress he’d made during his first week on the job—both with the room and with his employer. She’d begun to relax around him. To hover less. To trust him with Zach. That meant a lot. As did the routine they’d all fallen into of sharing their lunch at a glass-topped wicker table in the breezeway. Their conversation was always impersonal, focused mostly on the renovation, but the normalcy of it, and the sense of acceptance he felt, were a balm to his soul.

      Crossing the breezeway, he could see Catherine through the screen door. She was angled away from him, arms akimbo, shoulders taut. As he approached, he heard her expel a frustrated breath before setting a jar on the counter.

      He tapped on the door. “Looks like round one went to the jar.”

      She twisted toward him and gave a rueful shrug. “Try round three. I think I’m down for the count.”

      “Would you like me to give it a try?”

      “Can’t hurt.”

      “May I?” He gestured to the door. She hadn’t asked him in since the day she’d gotten sick, and though her wary manner was softening, he didn’t want to do anything to make her nervous.

      “Sure.”

      She picked up the jar and met him halfway across the room, limping a little less than she had on Monday.

      “How are the toes today?” He took the jar of spaghetti sauce as he asked the question.

      “The swelling has gone down, and they don’t hurt as much. Keeping them elevated helps a lot. But I don’t like sitting around.”

      That didn’t surprise him. Catherine struck him as a take-charge, get-it-done kind of woman.

      He took a firm grip on the lid, preparing to give it a strong twist. “Well, maybe by