And Baby Makes Four. Mary Forbes J.

in that moment, he believed her. He really did.

      Chapter Three

      Lee kept her word and landed with barely a bounce on the south end of Lake Washington near Renton’s seaplane base. Still, as he climbed out of the craft, Rogan could have bowed to the floating dock, so grateful was he to be earthbound again.

      Now, riding the elevator ten floors up to the law offices he and Johnny had established eight years ago, he recalled her piloting skills again. She had eased his thundering pulse in the way she handled the plane. With a little luck, he’d take that ease to his brother. After three long, heartbreaking and guilt-ridden years, Rogan had come to hate the mere mention of the charter airline responsible for taking his family, and he suspected this meeting would be more of the same frustrating roller-coaster ride.

      When he entered the reception area, the woman at the desk raised her head. “Mr. Matteo. It’s good to see you again, sir.” As if he’d been gone ten years rather than ten days. “Your brother is expecting you.”

      “Thanks.” Briefcase in hand, he headed down the hallway leading to the big L-shaped corner office—his old stomping grounds—with its spectacular view of Mount Rainier. When he left, Johnny had claimed the space. At the thought, Rogan expected a twinge of regret and envy. None came.

      The door stood open. His brother sat behind the expansive cherrywood desk where Rogan had spent years reviewing cases and interviewing clients. He knocked softly on the doorjamb.

      “R.B.” A big grin flashed across Johnny’s face. “I was wondering if you’d come.”

      “I almost didn’t.” He set the briefcase beside the small comfortable sofa, and went to the credenza for some coffee. “Want some?” he asked, tossing a dollop of cream into a mug.

      Johnny shook his head. “Already had enough to sink a ship.”

      Rogan lowered himself to the earth-toned sofa. “What’s up?”

      Chuckling, Johnny came around the desk to sit in the adjacent chair. “You never were one to waste time.”

      “Yeah, well, maybe I should have,” he muttered, reprimanding himself for the years of work he’d prized, including the day his world collapsed.

      Crossing his arms, his brother sat back. “And maybe you should give yourself a break.”

      Rogan glanced up. “I need you to be a brother, John. Not a frickin’ shrink.”

      Johnny sighed. “All right. Here’s the deal. They’ve upped the ante for an out-of-court settlement.”

      They would be Abner Air. He hated the name, hated that—to him—it sounded hillbillyish. Most of all, he hated that he had to sue for slack maintenance, which he believed resulted in the crash of the single-prop plane Darby and Sophie boarded.

      I don’t feel good about this trip, Rogan. Fisting his hands on his thighs, he battled back his dead wife’s parting words. Words which could still haunt him deep in the night.

      “How much this time?” he asked. His jaw ached.

      Johnny quoted the price.

      Anger heating his blood, Rogan stood and walked to the windows. Across the city, Rainier rose like a white-crusted jewel. He’d learned to ski on her slopes. “The only reason they want to settle out of court is because they’re guilty as sin.” Turning, he faced his brother. “They don’t want media coverage. But they’re going to pay, and it’ll be in court with the media present. I want them exposed.”

      A long moment passed. Finally, Johnny said, “I think you should go for the deal, R.B. If we go to trial, you may come away with a helluva lot less. You’ve worked against big companies. You know the game.”

      “Cutthroat. I know. But I don’t give a rat’s ass. These people deserve every damn thing we can throw at them.”

      Johnny studied him. “Is that why you bailed on Matteo and Matteo? Because you thought we were getting too ruthless?”

      “I didn’t bail. I wanted something different, with a different outlook.” One that offered a slower pace of life, and saw the heart of a client’s problems, not the size of his wallet.

      “And you’ll be paid in peanuts for your effort,” Johnny grumbled. “I’ve done some checking of my own. That island is inhabited by a bunch of hippie offspring.”

      Rogan thought of Lee, the most structured person he’d met in years. “They’re not all loosey-goosey, John,” he said in defense of her. “However, that’s not the issue here.” Spinning on his heel, he paced the length of the windows. “These SOBs are hiding something. I want to know what it is, and I want to know yesterday.”

      Johnny’s eyes were grim—and sad. “We may never know why that plane went down, Ro. Let’s take the deal and put an end to this.”

      Rogan clenched his fists. “There’ll never be an end because the other half of my family will never come back.”

      “Okay. Okay.” Elbows to knees, Johnny pushed both hands into his dark hair and gusted a sigh. “I may have a lead on another avenue, anyway. But let me sort through it first.”

      “Fine. Keep me posted.”

      “Always.” His brother’s mouth curved. “Now, tell me, how’s life down on the farm?”

      Rogan returned to the sofa, stretched his legs. The mere mention of his new property calmed him. “House should be finished by the end of next week.”

      “Dan’s excited?”

      “Oh, yeah. We take daily treks to see the foal.”

      “Still can’t believe you’re doing this. An island for God’s sake, never mind a farm.”

      “It’s what Daniel needs.” Truth was, he’d checked out Firewood Island because Sophie had adored the classic story, Misty of Chincoteague. Sophie who, after reading the book, had asked at dinner one night, Can we live on an island, Daddy, and have a pony? and he’d replied, Only dreamers live on islands.

      Could he have been any more obtuse to his little girl? Well, he would be that dreamer now, be what Sophie had yearned for in the purity of her heart. Most of all, he’d be a father Danny could count on.

      “Whatever the case,” he went on, thinking of the homey little office he hoped to rent above the coffee shop in Burnt Bend. “We’re where we want to be. It’s quiet, laid-back, and the people are friendly.”

      “And you don’t have to walk the rooms where they lived,” Johnny said quietly.

      Rogan closed his eyes. A headache stitched into his temple. “Let it go, all right? Just make Abner Air pay.”

      “I’ll do my best.” Abruptly, his brother stood. “Come on. Breakfast’s on me.”

      “Thought you’d never ask.”

      At the door, Johnny shouldered into a dark designer jacket. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, R.B.”

      Words he’d heard a hundred-fold. “Yeah. Me, too.”

      At one and on her second flight to the mainland that day, Lee again skimmed the seaplane across Lake Washington. A tall, charcoal-suited figure stood on the dock, briefcase in hand, black hair tousled by the breeze.

      Rogan.

      The sight of him sent a pang into her belly. She wouldn’t consider herself an empathetic woman—not like her sisters Addie and Kat whose hearts rode their sleeves most of the time—yet something about Rogan Matteo dug deep.

      Standing there as she taxied in he seemed almost forlorn and a little…lost.

      “That your fare back?” her brother-in-law asked from the co-pilot’s seat. Skip Dalton had married Addie last Thanksgiving, following a thirteen-year