A Father for Zach. Irene Hannon

Fine.” She pasted on a smile, trying to squelch the uncomfortable feeling that this stranger had just tapped into her deepest well of sadness. “But I don’t want to be late putting Zach down for his nap.”

      “Oh, Mom.” Zach thrust out his chin and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m too old for naps.”

      A pulsating pain—a twin to the one in her foot—began to pound in her head, and Catherine rubbed her temple as a wave of nausea swept over her. “We’re not going to argue about this, Zach. Go into the kitchen. Now!” The words came out sharper than she intended, and when tears welled in Zach’s eyes, her nausea ratcheted up a notch.

      “You don’t have to get mad about it.”

      “I’m not mad. I’m…” All at once, Catherine’s stomach revolted. Covering her mouth with her hand, she turned and clumped toward the bathroom as fast as her broken toes would allow.

      She made it just in time to lose whatever breakfast remained in her stomach.

      When she finally stopped retching, a soft knock sounded on the bathroom door.

      “Mrs. Walker? Are you all right?”

      She closed her eyes. Nathan had followed her in. Meaning he’d not only witnessed her bad temper with Zach, he’s also heard her empty the contents of her stomach into the toilet.

      Not an auspicious beginning for their employer/employee relationship.

      “Mrs. Walker?” The concern in his voice edged up a notch.

      “I’m okay.” She took a deep breath. One part of her wasn’t happy he’d trespassed into their private quarters. Another part was touched that he’d cared enough to take that chance. She wasn’t sure which reaction was stronger. And she wasn’t in any shape to figure it out. “Where’s Zach?”

      “He’s waiting in the kitchen. It took a couple of Hershey’s Kisses from the bowl on the counter to convince him to stay put, though.”

      So much for his lunch, Catherine thought with a sigh. But at least the bribe had bought her a few minutes to get herself together.

      Gripping the vanity for support, she examined her reflection. Not good. All the color had vanished from her face, and small beads of sweat rimmed her upper lip. She could try and buy herself a few more minutes, but she doubted her appearance was going to improve anytime soon. Resigned, she snagged a tissue, wiped off the moisture, straightened her shoulders and swung the door open.

      Nathan sized her up in one swift but thorough scan. “You don’t look too good. Any idea what’s going on?”

      “Too many pain pills is my guess.” She propped a weary shoulder against the doorframe. “I don’t take any medicine as a rule, and I’ve been doubling up on the dosage. I felt a little queasy last night, too.”

      “That could be it. Why don’t you lie down for a while?”

      She tried to smile. Failed. “Not an option. I have a six-year-old to feed.”

      Several beats of silence passed as he regarded her. “I could do that for you. If it’s something simple.” The smile he gave her seemed a bit stiff. Like a little-used window that had to be coaxed open. “I’m afraid I never learned many cooking skills.”

      Under normal circumstances, Catherine would have refused his offer. She didn’t relegate Zach’s care to anyone. Nor did she allow strangers in her home. But with a throbbing head, a throbbing foot and legs so shaky she wasn’t certain they’d keep her upright much longer, these weren’t normal circumstances. Not by a long shot.

      Rather than labor over the decision, she told herself she ought to be grateful that providence or fate or simple luck had provided a set of helping hands today.

      “Can you handle a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?”

      His smile hitched up a notch. “If you direct the process, I’m sure I can manage.”

      He seemed to understand that much as she might want to take his advice and lie down, there was no way she intended to leave him in her home—nor with her son—unsupervised. She was glad he’d discerned that—and hadn’t taken offense. It made things easier. Less awkward. And there was no hurt in his eyes this time, as there had been when she’d rebuffed his gesture of friendship toward her son at the wedding.

      Relieved, she tucked her hair behind her ear. “That works.”

      He stepped aside to let her pass as she started down the hall, but she hadn’t gone more than three steps when her good leg buckled. He was behind her in an instant, his hands firm on her upper arms, supporting her.

      Fingers splayed against the wall, she drew an unsteady breath. “Sorry. I guess that little episode took more out of me than I thought.”

      Without releasing his grip, he stepped beside her. “You’ve had a rough few days. Why don’t you lean on me and we’ll get you situated in the kitchen?”

      The notion of leaning on anyone didn’t sit well with her, but she didn’t have much choice. Not if she wanted to make it to the kitchen on her feet instead of her knees. “Okay.”

      He slipped his right arm around her shoulders, and she moved closer to him, clinging to his left hand.

      As they slowly traversed the short passageway, Catherine discovered a couple of things. Despite his thinness, Nathan was strong. She could feel power in the sinewy muscles that bunched in his forearm, in the solid chest that brushed her shoulder, in the lean fingers that gripped her forearm. And he was also tall, towering at least six or seven inches above her five-foot-five frame.

      Usually big, strong men scared her.

      For some reason, this one didn’t.

      When they entered the kitchen, Zach looked up from a small pile of incriminating silver paper, his guilty expression morphing to concern. “How come you’re so white?”

      “Your mom’s toes are hurting a lot, and her stomach isn’t too happy about the medicine she’s taking to help them feel better.” Nathan stepped in before she could respond, and Catherine let him. She also let him guide her to one of the kitchen chairs. And she didn’t protest when he retrieved the cushion from the breezeway and lifted her foot to an adjacent chair, his fingers warm and gentle as he settled the soft pad under it.

      A little quiver that had nothing to do with nausea rippled through her stomach, and Catherine frowned. What in the world was that all about?

      “How does a peanut butter and jelly sandwich sound?” Nathan directed his question to Zach.

      Her son sidled a guilty look in her direction. “I’m not real hungry.”

      Nathan swiped up the incriminating silver papers and deposited them in the trash can. “You must be. Hard workers have big appetites. And you’re a hard worker, aren’t you?”

      “Yeah.” Zach wandered over to the table and sat, chin in palm, watching Nathan.

      “I thought so.” He turned toward Catherine. “Peanut butter?”

      “In the cabinet on your right. Jelly’s in the fridge. Bread’s on the counter, by the toaster.” She motioned tiredly to her left, the spare response all she could manage.

      She watched as he went about his task with an admirable efficiency of motion. It was the same approach he took with his work. She’d noticed it when she’d stopped in a few times this morning to make sure Zach wasn’t getting in his way.

      But as she took a closer look at him for the first time, she noticed some other things, as well. Flecks of silver in his neatly trimmed brown hair. Fine lines at the corners of his eyes. Small scars on his temple and chin. Brown eyes that looked as if they’d seen way too much bad stuff, confirming the impression she’d had at the wedding.

      Guessing his age to be midthirties, Catherine couldn’t help wondering