Apprentice Father. Irene Hannon

in a script so shaky he hoped he’d be able to read it later.

      “And give us a call once you arrive,” the lieutenant finished. “We’ll need you to fill out some paperwork. Is there anything else we can do for you in the meantime?”

      “Find my sister’s husband.”

      “We intend to. And if it’s any comfort, your sister’s friend told us she would notify their pastor, and that all of you would be remembered in the prayers of her congregation.”

      With an effort, Clay bit back the disparaging comment that sprang to his lips. Instead, he thanked the officer and hung up.

      Clasping his shaky hands, he leaned forward and took several long, slow breaths as the lieutenant’s last comment echoed in his mind. He’d grown up in a so-called Christian home. A household where the slightest transgression was punished. Where hell and damnation were preached, and guilt was ladled out in generous portions. Where the God of vengeance and punishment held court, and where unrepentant sinners—like him—were dealt with harshly and told to pray for mercy.

      Back then, Clay hadn’t thought much of prayer. He thought even less of it now, the taste of bitterness sharp on his tongue. Anne had prayed. But where had God been when she’d needed Him a few hours ago? And what good were the prayers of her congregation now? Anne was gone, leaving a four-and five-year-old motherless.

      As for him…he didn’t need God’s help. He’d learned long ago to take care of himself.

      Of course, if God wanted to lend a hand, that was fine. He was going to need all the help he could get in the days to come.

      But he sure wasn’t going to count on it.

      Chapter One

      As the service for Anne droned on, Clay checked on the two children sitting beside him, who were huddled close together in the pew, holding hands. Emily’s long, dark hair was pulled back with a ribbon, and her eyes were huge in her pale face. Fair-haired Josh looked uncertain and lost, his freckles standing in stark relief against his pale skin, one finger stuck in his mouth. He hadn’t said a word since Clay had arrived in Omaha.

      Redirecting his attention to the sanctuary, where Reverend Phelps was presiding over Anne’s funeral, Clay tried not to appear too hostile. He hadn’t been inside a church since his sister’s wedding almost ten years ago, and he’d prefer not to be in one now. But Anne would have wanted a church service. That’s why he’d thrown his one suit into his suitcase in the early morning hours preceding his long, solitary drive to Nebraska.

      He’d always been a sucker about giving his gentle, loving kid sister what she wanted, he recalled. His favorite comic book, his last piece of chocolate. He’d been her biggest fan when she’d had the leading role in her grade school play, and her staunchest defender when bullies had plagued her in middle school.

      Yet he hadn’t been able to save her from the ultimate bully. From the man who, ironically, had pledged to love, honor and cherish her all the days of his life.

      As he looked at the coffin resting beside him in the aisle, Clay’s throat tightened. A tear leaked out the corner of his eye, and he dipped his head to swipe at it with the back of his hand.

      May Martin rot in hell for all eternity, Clay thought, the bitter wish twisting his gut.

      And his feelings toward his old man weren’t much kinder.

      Nor were they tempered by the memory of their brief conversation after he’d arrived in Nebraska. He hadn’t seen or talked with his father since Anne’s wedding, and he hadn’t recognized the querulous voice on the phone. But though his father had sounded old and feeble, he’d been as self-righteous, demanding—and disapproving—as ever.

      “Listen, boy, I can’t make it to Nebraska for the service. I have pneumonia.” His father’s hacking cough, followed by audible wheezing, had interrupted their conversation. “You’ll have to handle the arrangements.”

      Clay had always hated how his father called him “boy.” His jaw had clamped shut and he’d gritted his teeth. “I plan to.”

      “There has to be a church service.”

      “It’s taken care of.”

      “Who has the children?”

      “I do.”

      “I guess there’s no other option right now.”

      He must think I’ll corrupt them in a week, Clay had concluded, compressing his mouth into a thin line.

      “I’ll take them as soon as I’m well enough,” his father had continued. “I’ll call you.”

      And with that he’d hung up.

      There hadn’t been a lot of opportunity to think about his father’s last comment, but as the organ launched into a hymn and the people around him began to sing, Clay considered the two children beside him. He’d been so mired in grief, so bogged down in paperwork and funeral arrangements, he hadn’t given much thought to their future.

      But as he regarded their innocent, anxious faces, his heart contracted with compassion. How could he relegate these little children to a cold, joyless life with his strict, hard-nosed father? After the trauma they’d been through, they needed love and tenderness, and a stable, supportive environment. They needed a caring parent figure and a real home. His father would offer none of those things.

      Unfortunately, he wasn’t equipped to offer them, either, Clay acknowledged. He didn’t know much about love or tenderness, and less about how to create a comforting haven. The home of his youth wasn’t a good prototype. Nor were his twelve years in the Army, where the focus had been on structure and discipline and honor. And his current job kept him on the move, making it impossible to establish ties of any kind—or even a permanent home. And that’s the way he liked it.

      Yet the thought of handing these children over to his father turned his stomach. The old man ruled through fear, not love. Joy and fun weren’t in his vocabulary. Josh and Emily would have a dismal life with him. That was the last thing Anne would have wanted for them.

      So what was he supposed to do?

      “As we take our sister, Anne, to her final resting place, let us find some comfort in knowing she is at peace and with God.” Reverend Phelps’s closing remarks echoed in the church, and Clay tried to focus on his words. “And let us recall how she always tried to do the right thing. That’s a challenge we all face. Because the right thing may not always be the easiest thing. It may not be what we want to do. It may take great courage. But Anne gave us a shining example of courage and selfless love. Let that be her legacy to us, one that we all strive to follow.”

      Twin furrows dented Clay’s brow. He’d seen too many people fail at relationships—with parents, with spouses, with children. Enough to convince him he never wanted a family. But if what the minister said was true, he had one now. For how could he send these children to his father’s home, where their life would be little better than before?

      All at once Clay found it difficult to breathe. Reaching up, he tugged at his suddenly too-tight tie. He’d had this feeling of being trapped, of the walls closing in on him, twice before in his life. Once, as a kid, living under his father’s roof. And again, during Army training, when he’d been locked into a small, dark room for several days during a POW simulation. In both cases, he’d survived for one simple reason: he’d known he would get out.

      But there was no escape from this situation. Not if he did the right thing.

      Clay knew about duty from his years in the military. Knew about it, too, from years of living in his father’s house, where the phrase “doing your Christian duty” had been drummed into him. The minister had confirmed that obligation. There was no doubt in Clay’s mind about what he should do.

      But he wasn’t sure he was up to the task.

      Frustrated, Clay raked his fingers through his hair. He