The Wrong Man. Laura Abbot
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some fun.”
By now, Weezer suspected, he’d learned the hard way that life was about more than fun.
She shook her head sadly. Kylie’s mother’s illness and death had been tragic. It seemed as if every time Trent risked love, something happened to steal it from him. Or he did something to sabotage it.
Lights flared against the spruce and pine trees lining the driveway. Beside her, Scout, her German shepherd, thumped his tail, then ran to the entry hall, looking expectantly back at her. Weezer hurried to the door, fumbling with the knob—darned arthritis—then stepped out onto the porch.
When the pickup pulled to a stop, she peered through the darkness, but couldn’t see the child. Trent stepped out of the truck, a crooked smile on his face. “We made it. I hope you weren’t worried. A semi jackknifed near Lakeside, blocking the highway.”
Weezer took the porch steps carefully, then moved into Trent’s hug. “Glad you’re here safely.” She stepped back. “Now, where’s that daughter of yours?”
Trent took her hand and led her to the truck. He opened the door and pointed. Lounging against the back seat, sound asleep, was the rosy-cheeked child Weezer hadn’t seen since she was tiny.
“Poor little thing.”
Trent sighed. “It’s been a long day.”
Just then, Scout threaded his way between them and climbed into the back seat.
“Scout!” Before Weezer could restrain him, he stood over Kylie, gently licking the girl’s face.
Kylie’s eyes fluttered opened. “D-Daddy?”
“Don’t be frightened, honey. It’s just Scout.”
Rubbing her eyes, Kylie sat up straighter. “A dog? I love dogs.” She wrapped her arms around Scout’s neck.
Weezer nodded sagely. “I think your little girl has made her first friend in Whitefish.”
Through dinner and unpacking, Kylie never let Scout out of her sight. Although the child didn’t say much, she seemed to keenly observe her surroundings.
Finally, after Trent had unloaded the truck and seen to Kylie’s bath, the three of them settled in the guest cabin’s living room for hot chocolate. In her footed flannel pajamas, Kylie curled up on the sofa with Scout. She seemed overcome with shyness, but finally, she turned to Weezer. “Is this a real log cabin like Little House in the Big Woods?”
“Well, we have more modern conveniences than Mary and Laura Ingalls did, but, yes, little one, this is as real as it gets.”
“Good,” Kylie said. “I can pretend I’m Laura. Or Mary.”
It was an innocent enough remark, but Weezer felt a chill pass through her. Would Kylie deal with her problems by retreating to a make-believe world the same way Trent had lost himself in derring-do?
“It’s about time for bed, sugar,” Trent said. “I can’t wait to show you this beautiful place in the daytime.” He set down his mug and held out his arms.
“How about a good-night hug?”
Kylie nudged Scout’s head from her lap and joined Trent in the big recliner. Lacing her fingers together, she gazed up at him, then said softly, “I’m trying not to be scared, Daddy.”
“I know. It’s natural for things to seem strange at first. But you’ll soon feel at home.” He wrapped his arms protectively around his daughter.
The love on his face, commingled with sadness and concern, tore Weezer’s heart. But then came Kylie’s response, plaintive and wistful, and Weezer had to turn away so neither father nor daughter would see the tears gathering in her eyes.
“Please, Daddy,” the child whispered, “be happy.”
ALTHOUGH THE HOLDIAY break had been more than welcome after a challenging first semester, Libby was glad to get back to her second-graders. To settle them on this first day of class, she’d put them to work making models of trains, boats, planes or any other form of transportation out of old cereal boxes, empty toilet-paper rolls and assorted odds and ends from her crafts bin. Now, as she helped Rory pour glue onto a Popsicle stick, she concluded she must have lost her mind. This was not a good idea. No sooner would she assist one child, than another would call out, “Miz Cameron, help!” She needed the legs of a centipede and the wits of Machiavelli.
“It’s ruined.” Behind her, ginger-haired Lacey Ford began to cry. “He did it!” The girl pointed her finger directly at Bart Ames, the class bully, who stood with his arms folded over his chest in imitation of a superhero.
“Did not!” Bart shouted. “It was just a stupid ole submarine.”
Libby mentally counted to five—ten was clearly out of the question—and took hold of Bart’s arm, directing him to a chair at the reading table. Then she returned to Lacey, who was in dire need of a tissue. “Calm down, honey, and tell me what happened.”
After Lacey told her story, Libby joined the sullen-face boy and squatted beside him. “Did you smash her submarine?”
Bart looked up at the ceiling, then shrugged. “Didn’t mean to.”
“What do you think you should do now?”
Another shrug.
“How would you feel if someone destroyed your helicopter?”
“Mad.”
“Do you think you could tell Lacey you’re sorry, and that you’ll help her build another sub?”
The boy’s hands moved nervously over his corduroy-clad knees, belying his tough-guy exterior. “I guess.”
Libby patted him on the shoulder. “Scoot, then.”
She remained hunkered down, trying to take a little breather. Then she heard the classroom door open, and out of the corner of her eye she spotted three sets of feet—Mary Travers’s Birkenstocks, a pair of scuffed cowboy boots and a small pair of white tennis shoes laced with pink. Please, she implored the patron saint of elementary-school teachers, not another new student.
“Miss Cameron?” Mary’s voice carried across the room. “I’d like you to meet someone.”
As she swiveled around, Libby took in the slightly built girl with downcast eyes and shoulder-length straight blond hair. Immediately she reprimanded herself for her insensitivity. The poor kid was practically shaking with fear. The class had quieted of its own accord, intently scrutinizing “the new girl.”
Libby rose to her feet to meet the girl’s father and welcome the child to her class. But as her eyes traveled up the long, muscled legs, past the tapered waist to the broad shoulders, her heart caught in her throat. It couldn’t be. And then the face, each contour so familiar that her fingers twitched to touch the closely shaven skin once more. Her gaze took in his sensual lips, crooked nose, thick eyebrows and curly sand-blond hair, and then she could no longer put off the inevitable. She had to look into those intoxicating deep blue eyes. “Trent,” she said, stumbling against the reading table.
He took a step forward, then stopped. “Libby.” The one-word acknowledgment halted time.
For a moment the walls blurred in a kaleidoscope of primary colors. Then, to Libby’s great relief, Mary bridged the awkwardness by taking the girl by the shoulders and urging her toward Libby. “Kylie, this is your new teacher, Miss Cameron.”
Struggling to ignore the cascade of emotions that threatened to drain her of all sense, Libby approached the child. “Kylie, what a lovely name. Welcome to second grade.” She put her arm around the girl’s thin shoulders and turned her to face the class. “Boys and girls, isn’t this exciting? It’s a new year and we have a new student. Could you say hello to Kylie?”
The girl blushed painfully as the chorus of voices greeted her. “Hello, Kylie.”