Her Daughter's Father. Anna Adams

won’t she talk to me?” He shut his mouth, reluctant to follow in his daughter’s footsteps and pull India any deeper into their lives.

      “I know I meddled, but the mistakes she can make are even more dangerous than the ones I made at her age. I should have thought harder before I spoke to her.”

      Jack hesitated. “I’m grateful for her change of mind about Chris, but I don’t know if she should be talking to you about family matters.”

      How could Colleen share her confidences with a stranger? Even a stranger who ran like a tipsy centipede and, in moments like rare treasures, smiled as if she knew how to make the most out of joy. Colleen should talk to him.

      Now India’s smile turned brittle. “I’m sorry if I over-stepped.”

      “No, I can’t imagine you did.” She’d disappeared that night at the festival. She’d all but refused his gratitude for helping Colleen. “I’m being rude again, but Colleen confuses me. I always thought her diaper days would be the hardest. You can’t go to the bathroom without making sure someone keeps an eye on an infant, but now she’s a teenager, I suddenly realize how much more she needs guidance.”

      “Even if she refuses to believe she does?” India finished for him.

      Maybe she had known how to talk to Colleen without saying more than she should. What mistakes had India Stuart made? What had she done that made her so anxious to help his daughter?

      He lifted his chin. “You must know fifteen-year-olds. Nieces? Nephews?”

      “No, I’m an only child.” Color stained her cheeks again, beautiful pale pink that deepened the blue in her eyes. “I’ve just worked with children.”

      Intrigued, Jack settled one foot on the stair behind him. “You volunteer?”

      India wrapped her arms across her rib cage. Her fingers looked too slender, splayed over her shirt. Her gaze became shuttered with reluctance. “I work at the library at home. I’m helping my father this spring. If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Stuart, I’m still sweaty, and the weather’s changing again.”

      A librarian? She’d waited all this time to mention it? Why? “What did I say that turned me into Mr. Stuart? I was Jack when you ran up.”

      India scooted past him, her back to the opposite rail. She must have run along the bay, but the salt on her skin was perfume. Drying, it left interesting, powdery patterns. Would her fragile wrist taste different than the full, earthy curve of her mouth?

      She braced one hand on her hip and the other against the wooden building, as if she heard his thoughts. Restraint tightened her tone. “You asked me not to pry. Maybe you shouldn’t, either?”

      He hesitated. One step closer, and he’d ask her questions a single man asked a single woman. Like why she was so afraid of the awareness that ran like a current between them.

      But he wasn’t just any single man. As he searched the shadows on India’s face, he remembered he was a fisherman who worked on another man’s boat so he could pay to repair his own trawler. His daughter barely spoke to him from her side of the great adolescent divide, and his in-laws seemed to agree he was making a mess of things.

      “Maybe I’m the one who’s overstepping.” Maybe, deep down, he’d come for more than a thank-you. He’d come for his own information, but he’d discovered too much. Finding out what had hurt her enough to teach her how to reach his daughter required a commitment he had no time to make. “I’d better get home before Nettie sets the kitchen on fire and Colleen decides it’s already too late to start her homework. Thanks again, India.” He stepped onto the sidewalk. “Good night.”