A Second-Chance Proposal

His mother truly seemed torn. “Why did you hurt that girl?” she asked sadly.

He’d told her once. He wouldn’t say it again.

But Cathleen didn’t have the same scruples. “In your heart, Rose, you have to know Dylan didn’t harm Jilly. He could never do such a thing.”

Hearing Cathleen defend him, Dylan felt a weird, fluttering sensation in his gut. She sounded so sincere, so heartfelt. Did she really trust him that much?

Rose’s mouth trembled. “You forget that Max was present that day. He saw it all. Out of respect for me, he didn’t tell the RCMP. But he saw Dylan shoot that girl—”

“He did not!” The dirty lying bastard… Dylan shot up from his chair, spilling some of his tea. Rose cowered, as if she expected him to strike her. But why? Unless she’d become conditioned to react that way to an angry man.

“Max wouldn’t lie to me,” Rose said softly.

Dylan held his hands close to his body and spoke gently. “I’m not the one who hits you, Mom. And I’m not the one lying to you. One day, I hope you believe me.”

DYLAN DIDN’T TALK on the way back to the B and B and Cathleen understood. She drove with the window down, her elbow propped on the ledge. Sometimes a brisk cleansing wind was the most you could ask for in a day.

At Larch Lodge, Poppy had lunch waiting. Cathleen didn’t have the heart to admit she had no appetite. Since the table was set for three, Dylan sat, too.

Cathleen pressed her fork into the quiche, then tried her first bite, aware that Poppy was eyeing her anxiously. The crust was buttery and light; the chopped carrots, onions, potatoes and celery, moist and curry flavored.

“Perfect,” Cathleen said, and Dylan concurred.

Poppy smiled. She sat and watched them eat for almost a minute, without taking a taste. Finally, she sighed.

“You say it’s good, but you don’t seem to be enjoying it.”

“It’s not the food, Poppy.” Cathleen laid down her fork. “It’s Dylan’s mother. Our visit didn’t go well.”

“Oh?”

“She’s obviously not healthy. She’s way too thin and…high-strung.”

“But she was pleased to see her son?”

Dylan, too, set down his fork. Murmuring an apology, he stalked off to the porch.

Cathleen raised her eyebrows at Poppy.

“I guess that answers my question. How sad. Family belong together.”

“Not always,” Cathleen replied, thinking of her no-account father. “In this case, though, I agree. Rose could use her son’s support, but Max has poisoned her mind against him. He’s convinced her that Dylan shot Jilly.”

“I see.” Poppy’s forehead collapsed into wrinkles, a sign, Cathleen had learned, of warring emotions. The older woman shook her head, then came to a conclusion.

“Kelly called this morning,” she said. “When she heard you were out with Dylan she became very perturbed, and I must admit she convinced me that you need to be very careful. Are you certain you can discount Rose’s opinion of Dylan so easily? While I’d be the first to admit that mothers don’t always know their children as well as they think they do, they usually have a fundamental understanding of their character. If she thinks Dylan could have shot Jilly…”

“Only because of her husband. Max Strongman is very domineering.” After today, she was almost positive he was abusive, as well. He’d been physical with Dylan, she knew, back in the early days when the two had lived under one roof. But she’d never guessed he might be hurting his own wife.

“Well, Kelly seems to think—”

“Poppy—” Cathleen held up her hand “—I love my sister dearly, but she’s a worrier. What does she think is going to happen? That Dylan will murder me in the middle of the night?”

Poor Poppy quaked a little at that comment. “Oh dear, I hope not. Perhaps locks on the bedroom door wouldn’t be a bad idea. But truly, I think her main concern is for your…for your heart.”

She’d spoken her last words tentatively, as if she sensed that Cathleen might object to this, most of all. Which only proved how well Poppy was getting to know her.

“Poppy, do I look like a fool? My heart is perfectly safe.”

“He’s a good-looking man. And a charismatic one.”

“On the surface, yes,” Cathleen agreed. “But my mother taught me that it’s what men do, not say, that counts. My father is the perfect example. He always said he loved my mother, but every time she had a baby he ran out on her, only to return several months later. Two times Mom let him get away with this. Then, finally, when she was pregnant with Kelly, she told him that if he took off again, he shouldn’t bother coming back.”

“And he left?”

“You bet.”

“That must have been very hard for your mother.”

“Her mistake was not kicking him out the first time.”

Back came those wrinkles. “You and Kelly wouldn’t have been born, then.”

Cathleen had to concede that point. “I guess we were lucky our mother had a soft streak. With apologies to any unborn children out there, I don’t agree.”

“Isn’t that a little harsh? People make mistakes. It’s part of the human condition.”

“Depends what you call a mistake. Coming home late, forgetting a birthday—those are mistakes. Running out on a mother and her newborn baby…” Not showing up for your own wedding… “Well, that seems like more than a mistake to me.”

The hesitation in Poppy’s smile told Cathleen she hadn’t quite convinced the older woman of her philosophy.

“Listen, Poppy. I’m going to see how Dylan’s doing. Will you leave the dishes for me to do later?”

Cathleen pushed through the screen door and found Dylan in one of her willow chairs, Kip at his feet. Slouched back, with his hat covering his face, he made the perfect picture of ease, but she knew better. Briefly, she rested a hand on his good shoulder, and found the muscles as tense as she’d expected. She went to the stairs and sat with her back against the railing, facing him.

All morning she’d been fighting the way the man drew her in. Each time their glances connected, her chest tightened in an oh-so-familiar—and oh-so-dangerous—way. The emotion—the intensity and hopelessness of it—reminded her of her high school years. Dylan was three years her senior and hadn’t deigned to notice her until she’d turned eighteen. When he’d finally woken up and taken stock of the middle Shannon girl all the boys were talking about, they’d quickly become friends. She’d been too young for their relationship to be more than that, and he’d understood.

She’d enjoyed dating boys her own age, playing the field. Her mother had warned all three of her daughters not to make the mistake of marrying too young. And Dylan had been content to wait.

On her twenty-sixth birthday, everything had changed. Dylan didn’t want to wait anymore, and neither did she. All along, she’d known he was the one. And at last the time was right.

That was when their relationship had taken on such passionate intensity that she’d realized just how inconsequential all her previous romantic entanglements had been. Two years later they’d become engaged.

Inseparable.

Until he took off the morning of their wedding.

Slowly, Dylan’s right hand rose. He lifted his hat and settled it back on his head, then gazed off toward the mountains that dominated the southern boundary of her property. The peaks were old friends to Cathleen, and she knew they offered the same sense of timeless serenity to him.