The Single Dad's Redemption

“No.”

“Camping? Hiking?”

Paul’s thick, steel-gray brows drew together in a frown. “Do I look like someone who would go camping?”

Connor glanced around the spacious room. Paneled in dark wood and cluttered with twice as much heavy furniture as it needed, and stacks of magazines on every flat surface, the room was so full that he’d even missed noticing the fireplace at first.

Toenails clicked on the hardwood floor and a white-muzzled, overweight dog appeared at the end of the sofa. It swiveled its head toward Paul then took a long, hard look at Connor, its teeth bared and hackles raised.

The dog and Paul had such similar personalities that Connor nearly laughed. “Nice dog.”

“Be careful. Bart doesn’t like anyone but me.” From the tone in his voice, Paul was proud of it, too.

But just then Bart ambled over to Connor, sniffed at the hem of his jeans, gave a sigh of contentment and planted his rear on the floor.

Connor reached down to ruffle the shaggy hair on his neck and scratch behind his ears. The old dog flopped down to rest his chin on Connor’s running shoe. In seconds he was snoring, his flaccid cheeks whuffling in and out with each wheezy breath.

Paul eyed his traitorous dog, and the old man’s bushy eyebrows lowered. “I guess he thinks you’re okay,” he muttered.

“Have you had him long?”

“Twelve years. He was a rescue from the animal shelter. No one wanted him till I came along, and we’ve been pals ever since.” A glimmer of a smile appeared briefly at the memory. “You have dogs?”

“I did, when I was still on my dad’s ranch in Texas. It was a long time ago.”

“A ranch?” Paul’s aloof expression faded. “I thought maybe you were some tramp.”

From the kitchen came the sound of a strangled laugh, and Keeley peered around the corner of the door. “Dad—for heaven’s sake. I told you he’s camping while his truck is being repaired. That doesn’t make him a hobo.”

When she disappeared back into the kitchen, Paul gave him a narrowed look. “A real ranch?”

Connor nodded, relieved to finally find some common ground. “Real. Horses. Cattle mostly. Around four hundred acres of hay.”

“I read a lot of Westerns. Seems like a great life, out there with the wide-open spaces. Clean air.”

“That’s what I miss most. But it’s a hard life and a lonely one at times.”

The rich aroma of beef roast grew stronger now, coupled with the scent of biscuits and something that smelled suspiciously like apple pie.

Homemade apple pie? The very thought made Connor’s mouth water and stomach rumble. The food had been okay in prison, as far as institutional cooking went, but he could already tell that this meal would be unbelievably good. “I’m guessing your daughter is a very good cook.”

“She’ll do.”

“I heard that, Dad,” Keeley teased from the kitchen. “So beef pot roast for Connor but bread and water for you.”

Paul ignored her. “Now, my wife, Frances—there was a woman who could cook. She could make magic happen in the kitchen.” Paul settled back in his chair, his eyes closing as he drifted back through his memories. “Flakiest piecrusts and fluffiest biscuits you ever tasted. And her fried chicken? Whoo-eee. She could make a man almost cry, just by promising to make it for supper.”

Once again Keeley appeared at the door to the kitchen with a pot holder and a smile. “What Dad said is all true. Mom was a wonderful cook. Even using her recipe files, I can’t measure up.”

Connor’s estimation of Keeley moved up another notch.

Apparently the old man didn’t appreciate how much his daughter helped him, and he certainly didn’t consider his words before speaking. Yet she remained consistently kind, handling him with grace and a touch of humor. Traits so far removed from the party girl he’d married that he couldn’t even begin to compare them.

He could only hope that Marsha had matured during the time he’d been in prison. That she’d become a better mom, a stronger person...and that her latest conquest was a man who was good to their son. Shaking off his thoughts, he turned to Paul. “I’m sorry about your loss.”

Paul’s eyes opened and his smile faded as he came back into the present. “It’s been a long time. Fifteen years and four months.”

“It must have been hard, losing your wife so young.”

“Car accident. All three kids were in the car with her, but only she died.” Paul stood slowly, as if favoring a multitude of arthritic joints. “She took my heart with her to the grave, and then I had to raise those kids on my own. Hardest thing I ever did.”

At least he’d had the privilege of raising them, though from his sour expression he’d considered it far more work than joy.