Blood Brothers. Anne/Lucy Mcallister/Gordon

could have wished for more discernment. A British “cowboy”—and all that that entailed—seemed almost preferable.

      “It’s nearly ten o’clock!”

      “Please, Mum,” Charlie’s eyes were alight with an enthusiasm she’d begun to fear she would never see again. He had been six when Mark died—old enough to remember, to long for the adventures they had shared, to miss his father dreadfully.

      “I’ll make it short,” Gabe promised. “You wouldn’t want me to leave ’em hanging overnight, would you, Fred?”

      And that was another thing! Fred!

      He’d started calling her that the day after he arrived and had made the children giggle. Fred!

      No one had ever dared call her Fred! Not even Mark—who was the most reckless person she’d ever known.

      But Gabe did.

      And now he just grinned at her, challenging her. His blue eyes were laughing, teasing her. It had been so long since anyone had teased her.

      Freddie resisted the grin, she resisted the teasing in his eyes. But she couldn’t resist the story. She pressed her lips together. “All right. But make it quick.”

      “Eight seconds,” Gabe promised solemnly. He patted the bed where he sat between Charlie and Emma. “Sit down, Fred. Get your daily dose of American culture.”