Jeopardy. Linda Howard
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set her to giggling.
Zane rose to his feet. “We’ll put the boys down for their naps while you have her occupied.”
Keeping Nick occupied wasn’t a problem; she was never at a loss for something to say or do. He curled one silky black strand of her hair around his finger while she chattered about her new shoes, Grampa’s new horses and what Daddy had said when he hit his thumb with a hammer. She cheerfully repeated exactly what Daddy had said, making Chance choke.
“But I’m not ’posed to say dat,” she said, giving him a solemn look. “Dat’s a weally, weally bad word.”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice strained. “It is.”
“I’m not ’posed to say ‘damn,’ or ‘hell,’ or ‘ass,’ or—”
“Then you shouldn’t be saying them now.” He managed to inject a note of firmness in his tone, though it was a struggle to keep from laughing.
She looked perplexed. “Den how can I tell you what dey are?”
“Does Daddy know what the bad words are?”
The little head nodded emphatically. “He knows dem all.”
“I’ll ask him to tell me, so I’ll know which words not to say.”
“Otay.” She sighed. “But don’t hit him too hard.”
“Hit him?”
“Dat’s de only time he says dat word, when he hits his dumb wid de hammer. He said so.”
Chance managed to turn his laugh into a cough. Zane was an ex-SEAL; his language was as salty as the sea he was so at home in, and Chance had heard “dat word,” and worse, many times from his brother. But Mom had also instilled strict courtesy in all her children, so their language was circumspect in front of women and children. Zane must not have known Nick was anywhere near him when he hit his thumb, or no amount of pain could have made him say that in her hearing. Chance only hoped she forgot it before she started kindergarten.
“Aunt Mawis is goin’ to have a baby,” Nick said, scrambling up to stand in his lap, her feet braced on his thighs. Chance put both hands around her to steady her, though his aid probably wasn’t needed; Nick had the balance of an acrobat.
“I know. Your daddy told me.”
Nick scowled at not being the first to impart the news. “She’s goin’ to foal in de spwing,” she announced.
He couldn’t hold back the laughter this time. He gathered the little darling close to him and stood, whirling her around and making her shriek with laughter as she clung to his neck. He laughed until his eyes were wet. God, he loved this child, who in the three short years of her life had taught them all to be on their toes at all times, because there was no telling what she was going to do or say. It took the entire Mackenzie family to ride herd on her.
Suddenly she heaved a sigh. “When’s de spwing? Is it a wong, wong time away?”
“Very long,” he said gravely. Seven months was an eternity to a three-year-old.
“Will I be old?”
He put on a sympathetic face and nodded. “You’ll be four.”
She looked both horrified and resigned. “Four,” she said mournfully. “Whodadunkit?”
When he stopped laughing this time, he wiped his eyes and asked, “Who taught you to say whodathunkit?”
“John,” she said promptly.
“Did he teach you anything else?”
She nodded.
“What? Can you remember it?”
She nodded.
“Will you tell me what they are?”
She rolled her eyes up and studied the ceiling for a moment, then gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Will you wet me wide your moborcycle?”
Damn, she was bargaining! He trembled with fear at the thought of what she would be like when she was sixteen. “No,” he said firmly. “If you got hurt, your mommy and daddy would cry, Grampa and Gamma would cry, I would cry, Aunt Maris would cry, Mac would cry, Unca Mike would cry—”
She looked impressed at this litany of crying and interrupted before he could name everyone in the family. “I can wide a horse, Unca Dance, so why can’t I wide your moborcycle?”
God, she was relentless. Where in the hell were Zane and Barrie? They’d had plenty of time to put the twins down for their naps. If he knew Zane, his brother was taking advantage of having a babysitter for Nick to get in some sexy time with his wife; Zane was always prepared to use a fluid situation to his advantage.
It was another ten minutes before Zane strolled back into the office, his eyes slightly heavy-lidded and his hard face subtly relaxed. Chance scowled at his brother. He’d spent the ten minutes trying to talk Nick into telling him what John had taught her, but she wasn’t budging from her initial negotiation. “It’s about time,” he groused.
“Hey, I hurried,” Zane protested mildly.
“Yeah, right.”
“As much as possible,” he added, smiling. He smoothed his big hand over his daughter’s shining black hair. “Have you kept Uncle Chance entertained?”
She nodded. “I told him de weally, weally bad word you said when you hit your dumb.”
Zane looked pained, then stern. “How did you tell him when you aren’t supposed to say the word?”
She stuck her finger in her mouth and began studying the ceiling again.
“Nick.” Zane plucked her from Chance’s arms. “Did you say the word?”
Her lower lip stuck out a little, but she nodded, owning up to her transgression.
“Then you can’t have a bedtime story tonight. You promised you wouldn’t say it.”
“I’m sowwy,” she said, winding her arms around his neck and laying her head on his shoulder.
Gently he rubbed his hand up and down her back. “I know you are, sweetheart, but you have to keep your promises.” He set her on her feet. “Go find Mommy.”
When she was gone, out of curiosity Chance asked, “Why didn’t you tell her that she couldn’t watch television, instead of taking away the bedtime story?”
“We don’t want to make television attractive by using it as a treat or a privilege. Why? Are you taking notes on being a parent?”
Appalled, Chance said, “Not in this lifetime.”
“Yeah? Fate has a way of jumping up and biting you on the ass when you least expect it.”
“Well, my ass is currently bite-free, and I intend to keep it that way.” He nodded at the file on Zane’s desk. “We have some planning to do.”
THIS WHOLE ASSIGNMENT was a tribute to Murphy’s Law, Sunny Miller thought in disgust as she sat in the Salt Lake City airport, waiting for her flight to be called—if it were called at all, which she was beginning to doubt. This was her fifth airport of the day, and she was still almost a thousand miles from her destination, which was Seattle. She was supposed to have been on a direct flight from Atlanta to Seattle, but that flight had been canceled due to mechanical problems and the passengers routed on to other flights, none of which were direct.
From Atlanta she had gone to Cincinnati, from Cincinnati to Chicago, from Chicago to Denver and from Denver to Salt Lake City. At least she was moving west instead of backtracking, and the flight from Salt Lake City, assuming it ever started