Read the book: «Second-Time Lucky»

“How do you see me?”

Jeff swished a carrot into the pepper dip and tasted it. “Spicy and delicious,” he murmured. He was pretty sure he was playing with fire. Ask him if he cared.

For months—years—he’d been cautious about involvement. Suddenly he wanted closeness…intimacy…touching…

“Don’t,” Caileen said hoarsely.

“Don’t what?”

“Look at me like I’m Red Riding Hood and you’re the wolf.”

Her husky laughter was shaky, and he was pretty sure she knew exactly what he was thinking. He took a long drink of sangria. It didn’t cool his fevered thoughts one degree.

“That’s what I feel,” he admitted, then laughed again. If he could joke about it, he could control the impulse.

Maybe.

When she looked directly into his eyes, he was pretty sure he couldn’t….

Dear Reader,

My family jokes that they can always tell where I’ve been because my next books are located there. Okay, I confess—I went to the Grand Canyon last year, also Monument Valley, Four Corners, Mesa Verde, Chaco Canyon and the high desert region. My husband, two grandsons, Shasta, our dog, and I camped along the way, sleeping in a tent and cooking over a campfire, feeling like real pioneers. When I wrote the Seven Devils series I knew I had to do the stories of the three runaways in Trevor and Lyric’s book. The stories of those orphans, all grown up, the wounded vet who took them in (and whose heart is as big as the western sky) and the awesome landscape of our western deserts came together for me during that trip.

Best,

Laurie Paige

Second-Time Lucky

Laurie Paige

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LAURIE PAIGE

“One of the nicest things about writing romances is researching locales, careers and ideas. In the interest of authenticity, most writers will try anything…once.” Along with her writing adventures, Laurie has been a NASA engineer, a past president of the Romance Writers of America, a mother and a grandmother. She was twice a Romance Writers of America RITA^® Award finalist for Best Traditional Romance and has won awards from Romantic Times BOOKclub for Best Silhouette Special Edition and Best Silhouette in addition to appearing on the USA TODAY bestseller list. Recently resettled in Northern California, Laurie is looking forward to whatever experiences her next novel will send her on.

This book is for Ryan, Kevin and Shasta, three great

traveling companions. Thanks for the s’mores when

dinner over the campfire turned into a disaster.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter One

Jefferson Aquilon manhandled the crate into place beside the cabinet, took a deep breath and wondered, for the hundredth time in the past hour, if he was doing the right thing.

Actually, it was a bit late to be thinking like that. Everything he owned had been moved—lock, stock, barrels and sculptures—from Boise to this small ranch near the county seat of Council, Idaho. All his hopes and plans hinged on making it in this new place.

Worry hit him like a sluice of icy water from a mountain spring. He’d made the move for the orphans in his care. Eighteen-year-old Jeremy, who’d taken on a man’s responsibility while still a boy, was his nephew. Thirteen-year-old Tony, who’d almost forgotten how to laugh, and Krista, who was ten going on thirty, weren’t blood relatives, but they were his second brother’s stepchildren, and Jeff was their only surviving relative.

Both his brothers had died young. Lincoln, father of Jeremy and the oldest of the three Aquilon boys, had had a heart attack at thirty-nine. That had been a shocker.

Six months before that, Washington, the middle son, had rolled his truck on an icy road one night and was dead by the time he was found and brought to the hospital. He’d married Tony’s and Krista’s mom when the kids were still toddlers. Although no adoption records had been found, the two children had taken his last name.

Jeff grimaced. Around the same time, he’d lost his left foot to a land mine while on a tour of duty in Afghanistan.

Life had continued to hand the Aquilons a raw deal. Nearly two years ago, the do-gooders at the Family Services Agency had taken the younger children away from him, saying his two-bedroom trailer wasn’t big enough, and put them in foster care.

The foster father had beaten the children until they’d come to Jeremy for help. The three had run away and hidden in the Lost Valley area until found last fall by the Dalton family, who had a ranch there.

Jeff clenched his hands into fists as anger buzzed through every nerve. He forced himself to relax and unpack the crate of woodworking tools.

Things were working out, he assured himself. While his family name may not have been enough to convince the juvenile court judge that the orphans would be fine in his care, the Dalton name had. A First Family of Idaho and all that, they’d come through for him and the kids and for that he was grateful.

Moreover, one of the Dalton wives was manager of a private charitable foundation. She’d convinced the directors to supply the down payment for the modern ranch-style home with a bedroom for each child—as Family Services insisted they must have—and that, along with the money he’d saved while in the army, had enabled the move.

Due to high demand for land in the city, he’d sold his place in Boise for top dollar and bought sixty acres adjoining the highway that led to one of the prime vacation spots in the area. The Daltons had helped pack and load his household goods onto a rented truck. They had also repaired the old barn on the property, making it into a shop for his salvage-and-recycle operation, which earned him a living, and his sculptures, which didn’t.

So, here he and his little improvised family were, less than a year after the custody hearing, settling into their new home, the kids enrolled in the local school system and the spring season—it was the last day of March—erupting into daffodils and birdsong.

His heart rate went up while an odd emotion skittered around inside him. He paused while unloading a box of old estate ogees he’d recently purchased and analyzed the feeling. Surprise caused a smile to tug at his lips.

Hope. Anticipation. An expectation that everything, at last, would be right with their world.

And what planet would that paradise be on? the doubting part of him inquired.

Something his mother had once said while she’d hidden him and his two brothers from their father, who’d been in a drunken rage at the time, came to mind.

“Shh,” she’d murmured at their whimpers. “Someday you’ll grow up and make your own life, one that will be much better than what your father and I have given you.”

Going outside to retrieve another box, Jeff squinted into the bright afternoon sunlight while recalling his determination to make a decent life for himself. He’d finished high school and joined the army, becoming a Ranger. However, nothing had turned out quite as planned.

A car turned into the lane leading to his place, interrupting the relentless flow of memories. A woman was at the wheel. Putting aside the lingering worries, he left the workshop and started for the house as the woman parked and headed for the front door.

She stopped on the new sidewalk made of rosy-toned pavers and lined with flowers planted by the kids, surveying the place as if thinking of buying it.

Wariness caused him to pause.

Her attire was all business, but there was something youthful, even graceful about the way she stooped to sniff a particularly aromatic rose.

He assumed she was there on business, probably referred by one of the local building contractors or interior designers who used his salvage services, but for an instant he wished she were there for him.

He frowned at the odd sensation and attributed it to spring fever or whatever had caused the mixed emotions of the morning. “Hello,” he called.

She straightened and pivoted toward him. She was older than he’d first thought. Probably around his age, he decided as he came closer, noting the faint lines fanning out from the corners of her eyes.

“You looking for someone?” he asked politely.

She removed her sunglasses and looked at him. Her eyes were light green with gold flecks in the center. For a strange second, he felt as if she were gazing into his soul…and wasn’t impressed by what she saw.

Caileen Peters glanced at her notebook. “Jefferson Aquilon?” She gazed at the man who approached her with only a hint of a limp. He matched the description given to her.

Except the file hadn’t mentioned he was a man straight out of a Brontë novel—dark and brooding, wary and watchful, interesting as only a mature man could be—one who was experienced and confident of his place in the world.

An odd shiver danced over her skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps along her arms and scalp.

Get a grip, she advised, reining in her imagination and concentrating on the business at hand. She raised her eyebrows as the silence spun out between them. In Family Services parlance, this was known as “taking charge.”

“You found him,” he said, a question in his eyes and no smile of welcome on his angular, attractive face.

He was a bit over six feet, with broad shoulders and a muscular frame. The laugh lines radiating from his eyes nicely balanced the frown line across his forehead.

He had dark hair, a shade between brown and black, and his eyes were so dark they, too, appeared black. Looking into them was like staring at a blank wall. There was a closed aspect to him, as if he didn’t allow anyone into his inner thoughts.

He was a year older than her own forty years—forty years!—and a veteran who’d had his foot blown off by a land mine while in Afghanistan. He’d also had some problems with the people at Family Services down in Boise last year, so she hesitated in telling him the purpose of her visit. No one liked to be poked and pried at by strangers.

“You have the advantage,” he finally said. “Are you going to tell me who you are?”

She introduced herself and added, “I work for the county. Family Services.”

His frown line deepened. “What do you want?”

A new life might be nice. “I’ve been assigned to this case. Now that you’ve completed your move,” she added when he didn’t respond.

“I thought we already had a case worker.”

“Not in this county. I’ve spoken to the counselor in Boise and to Lyric Dalton up here, so I think I have a pretty good idea of your situation.”

“Do you now?”

The tone was more than a little cynical, with an undercoating of sarcasm and suspicion. Exactly like most of her clients at the first meeting, only more so.

Her counterpart in Boise, Mrs. Greyling, had been a tired, bitter woman who should have retired before she reached burnout. She’d been instrumental in removing the children from this man’s care and had been humiliated when they ran away from the foster home she’d recommended.

Caileen smiled at the man who’d taken the orphans in. That the children had asked to stay with him was in his favor, and Lyric had assured her he was a truly caring person. His present attitude wouldn’t influence her impression of him. Only time would do that, and she would have lots of time to get to know him and his family well.

Well, maybe not. She’d turned forty last week. Her daughter had informed her she was middle-aged and didn’t understand anything about the younger generation.

“I’m so glad your place here is finished,” she said, focusing on the silent man. “The children have settled very well into school and the community, from all reports.”

“So you’ve checked them out and now you’ve come to do the same with me,” he stated.

She held her smile in place. “Yes. I need to see the house, if you don’t mind.”

“Would it do any good if I did?” His unexpected smile was heavy with irony, but it did nice things for his face.

Not believing in evading the issue, she said, “Not if you want to keep the children.”

He took one step and was in her face. “Let’s get one thing clear from the beginning. Those kids have been pushed around enough. The judge said they could live with me and this is where they will stay.”

“I think that would be best, too,” she said in the calmest voice she could muster. She inhaled deeply.

A scent like wild thyme and balsam filled her, along with the clean odor of sweat and soap and aftershave lotion. The pure male aroma did something to her insides, and for a moment, she remembered being young and in love.

She sucked in a harsh breath and brought herself back to the present.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his chocolate eyes narrowing as he studied her.

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

Moving on, she mentally made notes on the flowers, the neatly mown grass on each side of the walkway, the rocks used to outline and separate each space. Beyond the small lawn, the ground was mulched or graveled for low maintenance and conservative water use.

From the files, she knew he was a sculptor as well as a salvage expert. Feeling they needed to find neutral ground, she asked, “Did you do those?” and pointed to a birdbath covered in bright ceramic pieces that held two sculptures made of copper wire. One was a bird perched on the edge of the basin and the other was a dog with its front paws on the opposite side while it peered at the bird.

His gaze followed hers, and he nodded.

The pleasing diorama was centered in a circle of river gravel. A wooden bench nestled close by under a copse of silver birch trees. The sky formed a perfect backdrop of blue with a few puffy white clouds to add contrast.

She wondered what it would be like to sit there on a warm summer evening and watch the stars come out.

“If we could go inside?” she suggested, shaking off the spurious notion.

He nodded and led the way to the front door, opening it and gesturing for her to go in first. She stepped into the modest home and stopped abruptly, unprepared for the lovely welcoming decor of the room, the warmth that seemed to reach out and grab her heart.

His hands settled on her shoulders as he came to a halt after almost crashing into her. Through her somber business suit, her skin prickled with awareness of his body so close behind her. She moved forward, away from him and his disturbing masculinity.

“This is charming,” she told him sincerely.

His smile returned, a real one. “Krista was in charge of the decorating. She consulted with the Dalton wives.”

Caileen ignored a flash of envy for the women he’d mentioned. Years ago, when she’d started on her career, the Dalton case history had been presented to her as a most successful blending of families. This achievement represented the paradigm she was to aspire to in her cases.

The former Dalton orphans were all happily married now, their families integrated into one ideal whole.

However, one needed ideal material to work with in order to perform miracles. She was willing to settle for a functional arrangement. Turning over a page in her notebook, she noted the cleanliness of the home, the comfortable furniture and the evidence of age-appropriate games and books as well as a television.

A vase of golden daffodils adorned the dining table and potted plants filled the kitchen windowsills and various corners of the large, open living area. The walls were painted a soft golden yellow with a sienna glaze that added texture. Other colors—yellow, green and pink—had been chosen to complement the braided oval rug that artfully defined the seating area of the large living room.

A copper sculpture of a mailbox in front of a farmhouse decorated one wall. Charcoal drawings of each of the children hung on another. The drawings were caricatures that were funny and tender at the same time. She noticed the initials on the drawings were the same as his.

“Is that your work?” she asked, realizing his talents were much greater than indicated in the case study folder.

Builders and interior designers depended on him in their remodeling efforts, she’d learned. He bought old furniture, even houses, and reclaimed the useable features such as mantels, lintels, doorknobs and decorative moldings.

While investigating his character, she’d made a point of checking out two of his metal sculptures in Boise, each a featured item in the front yards of very expensive homes. The reports hadn’t mentioned his additional artistic abilities, such as the drawings.

“Yes.”

The answer was grudgingly given. She didn’t write this observation down. “They’re quite good. Children need to see pictures of themselves. It gives them a feeling of worth and self-confidence, of being important to others.”

When he said nothing, she continued on the tour.

In each of the bedrooms there was a desk and bookcase. Each desk had a dictionary on it. The bookcases were filled with reference books and novels that reflected the personal tastes of the occupants. She noted this with approval.

“Excellent,” she said, giving him a nod and closing the notebook when she finished the inspection.

His chest lifted as if he took a deep breath of relief. It was the only sign he’d displayed of being apprehensive about her visit. “The last room is down this way.”

She followed him to the opposite side of the house, although there was really no need to see his quarters.

But she was curious.

The bedroom was large and rather narrow. A king-size bed occupied one end. There were tables and lamps handily located on each side of it. An alcove with an easy chair, a rocker and a bookcase invited one to linger and read. A large bathroom was next to that. The color scheme was a soft, smoky blue with touches of tan and mauve.

Envy ran through her like a summer heat wave.

“Your home is lovely,” she managed to say. “It will be a wonderful place for children to grow up.”

“If the adults make it that way,” he said, qualifying her impulsive statement. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

Her surprise must have showed.

“I want to ask you some questions,” he added.

“Coffee would be fine.”

Once they were seated at the dining room table, each with a steaming cup of fresh coffee, he gazed out the window as a nippy March breeze stirred the daffodils.

“How long do you have to check me out before you decide the kids are okay here?”

“Foster children are under the care of the state and county until they’re adults.”

“Eighteen or twenty-one?”

“Eighteen.”

The frown line indented across his forehead. “So you’ll be keeping an eye on us for several years.”

“Until Krista is eighteen.”

“Seven years and one day,” he said. “Could they be taken away at any time if you give the word?”

“Not quite as easily as that,” she told him. “I would have to be able to show cause.”

“What would that be?”

She wondered what he was getting at. “Physical abuse—”

“Like the beatings that made Tony and Krista run away from the other foster home?”

Caileen reached across the table and laid a hand on his arm. “I’m terribly sorry for that. We really do try very hard to prevent such things.”

He stared at her hand until she withdrew it, then peered into her eyes. “What else?”

“Mental abuse,” she continued. “Alcohol abuse. One of the most common causes for removal in foster families is spending the allowance for the children’s food and clothing on personal items.”

“That won’t be a problem here.”

“I didn’t think it would. Another thing the courts frown upon is lack of supervision.”

“I see.” He gazed out the window again. Caileen sipped her coffee, which was surprisingly good, and waited for his next question.

“Was Krista physically abused?” he asked. “Apart from the beatings?”

Caileen shook her head. “No. Why do you ask?”

“She seems afraid of me sometimes. She doesn’t like it when both the boys are out at one time.”

“That could be separation anxiety,” Caileen said after considering the facts. “She depended solely on Jeremy and Tony for her safety during the time they were hiding out. It can be frightening to need another that much, to know that without them, she might have to return to foster care and face the same situation again but alone this time.”

“Why wouldn’t she come to me? I’ve never hurt them.”

“Perhaps she isn’t sure you really want her.” Caileen glanced at her watch. She’d been there nearly an hour and still had two other homes to visit. Rising, she gathered her purse and notebook. “I think we should give her time to realize that her life isn’t going to suddenly change again.”

“She needs to regain her trust in people,” he concluded, the cynical note back.

“Yes. Don’t rush her. Just be available if she wants to talk. Stories can help children open up. I have some good books that would be right for Krista. I’ll see that you get them. You might read a chapter to her each night. Oh, and have her read one to you. That helps enormously with reading skills, we’ve found.”

“Okay. When can I get the books?”

Clearly he wasn’t one to waste time. “I’ll bring them over tomorrow.” She checked her day planner. “Around noon. That’s the only time I have free.”

“Fine. At noon then.”

He strode toward the front door, the interview over as far as he was concerned. She found herself as much amused by his manner as touched by his obvious concern for the orphans in his care.

“Mr. Aquilon—”

“Jeff,” he corrected. “Since we’re on day one of a seven-year relationship, we may as well be on a first-name basis.”

“Jeff,” she acknowledged. “I want you to know we’re on the same side where the children are concerned.”

He looked as if he might dispute that, then he nodded, so solemnly it touched something deep inside her that hadn’t been disturbed in a long, long time.

A few minutes later, giving one last wave over her shoulder as he watched her departure, she turned onto the main road and headed for her office.

Her conclusions would be fairly easy to write up. The home was perfectly acceptable. The man was…

She considered several adjectives as she wound her way down the tree-lined country highway. Strong. Cynical. Self-contained. Kind. Caring. Responsible.

If her husband had been like Jefferson Aquilon, maybe they would still be together. Maybe life would have been easier for their daughter if she’d had a father who could have stuck it out during the hard times.

Instead, Brendon, her twenty-six-year-old surfer hero, had run out after five years of married bliss. Not that things had been much fun the last four of those years. With a child had come responsibility. Zia had needed a home, not a van, to live in. She’d needed medical treatment for her asthma.

The family had needed steady income, more than Caileen could provide from her nursing assistant salary while she tried to pursue her degree in counseling. Her parents, furious with her marriage, hadn’t offered help before or after the divorce.

Unfortunately, she now knew exactly how they’d felt. Experience was a great teacher. Putting thoughts of the past on hold, she finished her afternoon appointments and went home.

The two-bedroom town house was cold when she let herself inside. Her daughter wouldn’t be home for another hour or so due to a late afternoon class. She turned up the thermostat, changed to a pair of old sweats and ate leftovers and a salad for dinner.

Later, over a cup of hot tea, she pondered the visit to the Aquilon place.

Jeff’s many talents had surprised her. Obviously he was more than a glorified junk dealer. After the visit, she’d had to revise her opinion of him.

Not that she hadn’t been prepared for him to be a nice person. Lyric Dalton had assured her he was. But he was much more than the surface evaluation written up in the case notes by the former counselor.

For one thing, he hadn’t mentioned losing his foot in service to his country. He seemed to have adjusted quite well to the prosthesis that had replaced his left foot. Some people would have tried to engage her sympathy on that score, but he hadn’t. Although he had a slight limp, he didn’t let the disability interfere with his work as far as she could see.

Her impression was that he took life as it came and dealt with each issue head-on. His concern and questions had all been focused on the orphans in his care.

After having the two younger children taken from him for no good reason—in his estimation, at any rate—he had a right to be cynical and distrusting of her department. Most people were.

Welcome to the club, she should have told him.

Her mother and grandmother had been social workers. Like them, she’d gone into it wanting to help families—especially those with children—make it. Lately she’d wondered if the emotional toll was worth it.

She sighed and listened to the wind in the cottonwoods outside the two-family house she’d bought twelve years ago in order to provide a stable home for her daughter. The rent from the other half had paid for braces and the trendy—but pricey—clothing all teenagers thought they couldn’t live without.

Her handsome, perfectly built, young husband had left their cozy nest when his daughter was four. Zia had never had a clue about the daily struggle to pay the babysitter, her college tuition and all that was needed to keep body and soul together during the three years that followed. Caileen hadn’t wanted her to.

She’d lived in university housing and arranged a babysitting co-op with other student mothers. She’d worked afternoons in the psychology department and weekends as a dishwasher at a restaurant where they’d let her bring her child. She’d found she could survive with a heart that felt as if it had been trampled in the dust and left for dead.

With her master’s degree and a job offer from the local Family Services office, she’d moved to Council, bought the two-family home and settled into the hectic routine known as her life.

She hoped, for Jeff Aquilon’s sake, he had an easier time rearing his three kids than she was having raising her one. Speaking of which, where was Zia?

With Sammy Steele—she answered her own question. Her beautiful, precious child was in love…with a young man who bore all the charming but unreliable traits of her handsome, laughing father.

How could Caileen protect vulnerable, headstrong Zia from the temptation of a boy who promised the moon and stars, but delivered only heartbreak?

Ah, well, a parent could only do so much without alienating her child. Unfortunately, she’d already crossed that nebulous line. She sighed. When she’d been nineteen and madly in love, no one had told her how difficult it was to be a parent.

Not that she would have listened at that age. She mentally winced, realizing her child was as blindly trusting in the future as she’d once been. How did one learn to choose wisely?

She still wasn’t sure she knew the answer to that question, so how could she expect nineteen-year-old Zia to do better? After all, she was supposed to be the expert on family problems and solutions.

Right. As soon as she found a reliable crystal ball, she’d solve the problems of the world.