Heart of a Hero. Anne Marie Winston

or we stay here.”

      Her blue eyes widened to the size of saucers. “We? You can do whatever you like but—”

      “I’d like to take my daughter back to California to meet her only surviving grandparent,” he said harshly.

      Her lovely face registered horrified shock. “You can’t just take off with my child.”

      “No, but I can take off with my child,” he said.

      He could see the moment that his earlier words registered. Phoebe’s forehead wrinkled and her eyes widened as she said, “One grandparent? Wade, has one of your parents passed away?”

      “My mother.” Anger was preferable by far to the grief that still gripped him at unexpected times. “She died seven months ago.”

      “Oh, my God.” Phoebe looked stunned. Her eyes filled with tears. “I need to sit down.” Her voice was faint and she stepped backward until the couch hit the backs of her knees. Then she collapsed onto the cushion, her hands clasped together so tightly he could see her knuckles whiten. “Oh, Wade, I’m so sorry. What happened?”

      “She had a stroke,” he said flatly. “Ten months ago. It was terribly debilitating and she didn’t want to live. Three months after the first one, she had another.” But if she’d known she’d had a grandchild, things might have been different. He could see in Phoebe’s horrified eyes that the thought had occurred to her as well.

      She pressed the heels of her hands hard against her eyes, elbows resting on her thighs. “I am so sorry,” she said in a muffled voice.

      He knew she wasn’t offering condolences. No, she was apologizing—again—for not telling him he had a child. “I want Dad to meet Bridget,” he said, “before much more time passes.”

      “But…I can’t just quit my job and go off to California.”

      “I didn’t ask you to,” he said evenly.

      Phoebe’s face lost what little color it still had. “Are you…are you going to fight me for custody?”

      He took his time answering, finding himself a seat in the comfortable armchair angled close to the sofa. “Are you going to force me to?” He waited until she met his gaze. “I want to get to know my daughter. I want to be with her every day—I can’t get back all the time I missed but I sure as hell don’t want to miss any more.” He closed his eyes against the surge of anger that shook him and waited for her to argue.

      “Okay.” Her voice was small.

      He was startled. “Okay?” The Phoebe he knew might be quiet and calm, but underneath she was a fighter when she believed in something.

      But she nodded. “Okay.” She swallowed. “I was wrong not to tell you as soon as I found out, Wade. I’m sorrier than you’ll ever know.”

      He didn’t know what to say to that. She was right—she had been wrong. Because she’d chosen not to tell him, his mother had died without ever knowing she had a grandchild.

      He simply couldn’t utter the words to accept her apology yet. He liked to think he was a big enough man that he’d soon be able to forgive her…but he didn’t feel that magnanimous right now. Instead of answering, he stood and went out the front door to his car.

      When he returned, Phoebe was still sitting on the couch with her hands clasped. She jumped up when he walked back in without knocking and dumped his duffel on the floor inside the door. There were tears on her face, which she hastily wiped away, and then she did a double take.

      “What are you doing?” She already knew, and she was aghast.

      “Moving in.” He shrugged. “It’s the only way to really get to know Bridget without taking her away from you.”

      She nodded as if she saw the logic, but a moment later, she shook her head vigorously. “Wait! You can’t just move in here!”

      “Why not? You and I have always gotten along well. We probably know each other better than a lot of couples do. And you have an extra bedroom. I saw it last night. I’ll pay rent.”

      She opened her mouth, then closed it again and shook her head helplessly. Finally, she said, “This is outrageous. So how did you just make it sound so utterly logical?”

      He grinned, feeling a lot more relaxed now that she hadn’t kicked him out first thing. “I’m gifted that way.” He’d hoped her obvious guilt would help sway her to his point of view and, apparently, it had worked.

      Suddenly, he realized she hadn’t spoken. She was staring at him as if he’d grown a second head. “What?”

      She shrugged. “That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile since you got off that swing yesterday.”

      “I haven’t had much to smile about,” he pointed out.

      Instantly, the angry tension was back in the room, humming between them like a downed electrical wire. He was about to speak again, to get more answers to the questions she’d never given him a chance to ask, when an odd whispering sound filled the air.

      It was barely audible, but Phoebe reacted instantly, a blinding smile lighting her face. “Bridget is awake.”

      His body reacted to that smile. But—

      “A-ba-bah-bah-ba,” It was a little louder now. Wade glanced around the room and spotted a baby monitor on one end table. Aha.

      Phoebe started for the stairs. “If I don’t get her fast, they’ll hear her down at the end of the street. I’ll be back in a minute.”

      Wade smiled to himself as she took the steps two at a time. Bridget was six months old. That had to be a bit of an exaggeration—

      “A-bah-bah-BAH-BAH!”

      Whoa. His kid had a set of lungs on her like Pavarotti.

      “Bridget.” Phoebe’s voice was a gentle singsong. “How’s my girl? Did you have a good nap?”

      The baby gave a delighted squeal that just about split his eardrums. Did Phoebe have that monitor turned up too high?

      “Hello, my sweet baby girl.” No, the monitor wasn’t too loud, because Phoebe’s voice sounded normal. “How was your nap? I’ve got somebody downstairs who wants to meet you.” He heard her chuckle. “But first we’d better change your diaper or he’s liable to keel over.”

      He listened to the rustle of the plastic diaper and the baby cooing, to Phoebe talking and singing little nonsense verses. It sounded surprisingly right. But he shouldn’t be surprised. Phoebe had always had a sensible, motherly streak. Years ago, if someone had asked him if he could envision her as a mother, he wouldn’t have hesitated for an instant before saying yes.

      A wave of intense sadness swamped him. And now she was the mother of his child. If he hadn’t been determined to find Phoebe, he’d never even have known he had a daughter.

      Footsteps on the stairs alerted him that they were coming, and he shook off the moment of melancholy and braced himself for his first clear sight of his daughter. He knew from what he’d seen last night that her hair was some shade of red, but the low light of the nursery hadn’t yielded much more.

      Phoebe’s legs came into view, and then the rest of her appeared. She was carrying a baby girl with the wildest red hair he’d ever seen in his life. Quirking in ringlets all over her head. Even at this young age, Phoebe had pulled the front of it atop her head with an elastic hair tie. Bridget’s hair was much lighter than Phoebe’s, and far more vibrant than Melanie’s pale strawberry had ever been. His kid’s hair looked like a live flame.

      Her face was a pretty little oval with a slightly more determined chin than was probably good, her eyes blue and sparkling as they found him. His heart skipped a beat. He actually felt it trip and miss, and he took a deep breath. God, she looked a lot like Phoebe.