A Father, Again. Mary J. Forbes

      One word. It locked his gaze to her caution-filled, flax-brown eyes; an instant later, she blinked and sucked in a quick breath.

      A small meow tore through his trance.

      C’mon, Jon. You’re here for a reason. Thrusting the box forward, he said, “Your cats.”

      She grabbed the unwieldy carton; the door swung wider and he saw a child, a girl a bit younger than Brittany, hovering near the kitchen table, big-eyed behind round lenses, pinky in her mouth.

      “Cats?” The woman frowned. “We only have one. Sorry. We try to keep her in the house, but sometimes she slips out the door behind us.”

      “Now you have four,” he said gruffly. “Kitty had a litter.”

      Her eyes widened. She peered under a flap. “Oohhh,” she exclaimed softly. “Sweetpea… No wonder you were so fat.”

      Sweetpea?

      His neighbor looked up. His throat tightened. Hers was an honest face, a gentle face. Life’s not honest, he wanted to tell her. It’s cruel. Callous. Unjust.

      A shy half smile. “My daughter Emily—” she glanced back at the child “—found her in an old tub of dried sweetpea vines inside our garden shed a month ago, thin as a rail and shaky with hunger. I don’t think she’d been fed in two weeks. We put ads in the paper, but so far no one’s claimed her.”

      Jon stared at the woman. Green and gold dappled her irises. He turned on his heel.

      “Wait—” She followed him across the porch. “Where did you find Sweetpea?”

      “On my shirt.” In the shadiest corner of his back deck, to be exact. Where he’d tossed his sweatshirt on the Adirondack chair when the temperature broke the eighty-degree mark while he’d been hammering in a new railing. He trotted down her steps and headed for the chink in the hedge without a backward look.

      “Sweetpea,” he muttered. More like sourpuss. The claw marks on his hands proved it.

      He’d get that extra juniper in before the sun went down.

      Rianne Worth watched the broad back of her visitor disappear.

      Jon Tucker.

      Heavens, when had she seen him last? More than twenty years ago, at least. She hadn’t recognized him. Not until he’d looked directly at her, demanding she keep her cats off his land. Those eyes, oh, she’d remember them in any decade! Eyes she still saw every so often in her slumbering dreams. Inscrutable, more than a little perilous.

      “Who was that man, Mommy?”

      Rianne turned to the child at her side. Her shy angel-girl. One day—soon—Emily would shout and laugh and charge into rooms like any normal eight-year-old. You will, Em. I promise. “Our new neighbor, pooch.”

      “He looks mean.”

      Rianne couldn’t deny it; he had looked mean. And angry.

      What had the years done to shroud him in that aura of arctic barrenness? The Jon Tucker of her youth flashed across her mind. Rough-and-tumble black hair, leather jacket, souped-up yellow pickup. Tough and grim. Kind in heart.

      “Is he like Daddy?”

      God forbid. “No, honey he’s not like your father.” At least not the Jon she remembered. “He doesn’t like to be bothered, that’s all,” she said, trying as always to look for the good, the decent. She knelt and held open the box flaps. “Come see what he brought.”

      “Oh, Mom-meee!” Emily breathed reverently. “Sweetpea’s got babies!” She reached in a tiny finger.

      “Careful, honey. Don’t touch the kitties for a week or so.”

      “I know. We learned that in science.”

      Rianne touched her daughter’s hair. “Smart girl to remember.”

      “They’re so cute.”

      “They are,” she agreed. Sort of. Three mouse-sized creatures with awkward heads, squashed ears and closed eyes clambered over one another to nurse.

      Emily stroked Sweetpea’s back. The cat yielded a purry meow, sniffed daintily at the girl’s fingers. “When’d she have them?”

      “Today, it seems.”

      Brown eyes centered on Rianne. “Did the man take her to the vet’narian?”

      “No. She birthed her kittens at his house. Em, once the kittens are weaned, Sweetpea will have an operation so she can’t have any more babies—”

      “Is that why he talked so mad?”

      “Who?”

      “The man.”

      “He wasn’t mad, honey. Just a little concerned.” All right, prickly as a chained dog. When she’d opened the door, his big, strong body had blocked out the day—similar to another muscled body—and her heart had stumbled.

      Then she’d seen his eyes, his beautiful, ink-blue eyes.

      Since the sold sign had disappeared next door, she’d seen him off and on, laboring on that century-aged house. He hadn’t waved, nodded, said hello. But, then, neither had she.

      And now?

      He hadn’t recognized her, nor was he inclined to friendliness, and he seemed to dislike animals. She would need to keep close tabs on Sweetpea, plus make a spaying appointment with the veterinarian ASAP.

      Hoisting up the carton, she stood. “Let’s take the kittens inside, Em. Sweetpea’s probably hungry and needs a clean bed for her babies.”

      Rianne carried the box into the kitchen and positioned it beside the cat’s food dish. Sweetpea lifted herself away from her wriggling offspring, then hopped out of the box to lap at the fresh water Rianne brought.

      “She’s thirsty, Mom.” Emily squatted inches from the little family. “Hungry, too,” she added when the mother cat meowed her gratitude for the canned food.

      The back door slammed. “I’m starving, Mom! What’s to eat?”

      Sam, Rianne’s thirteen-year-old son, flung himself into the kitchen, cheeks red, brown hair mussed from the bike ride home.

      “Hey, suhweeet!” Slinging off his backpack, he dropped to his knees beside his sister. “Sweetpea had kittens? That’s so cool.”

      Rianne’s heart swelled. Every moment of joy was like a gift; she vowed to keep them coming.

      “Whose shirt?” Sam eyed the faded, navy-blue cotton bunched in the bottom of the box.

      “It belongs to our neighbor. Jon Tucker.”

      “The biker guy? The one with the long hair and the tattoo here?” He patted his left forearm.

      “Yes.”

      “Oh, man, this is major cool. Now that you’ve met him, maybe I can go over and see his Harley.”

      “Don’t, Sammy,” Emily piped up. “He talks really mean.”

      Sam’s grin vanished. “Mean?”

      Okay, Rianne thought, let’s iron this out right now. “Mr. Tucker isn’t accustomed to having animals around, Sam. It seems Sweetpea’s been visiting regularly.”

      “But she’s just a cat!”

      “Some people are afraid of cats. They may’ve had a bad experience with them as a child or they might have allergies. Like Em with pumpkins. You know how she breaks out in a rash whenever she eats pumpkin pie?”

      Emily nodded; Sam simply stared.

      She went on. “As you know, people can have reactions to cats and other animals. Sometimes,” she paused