He hadn’t set out to do battle with all drug dealers because they symbolized his father. He wasn’t aiming for atonement. The idea was ridiculous. You had to care, if only in a negative way, to draw in a face on the paper target at the shooting range that you intended to pump full of bullet holes. Conall didn’t do that. His paper targets stayed faceless.
He was aware, though, of some tension he didn’t understand. He was frowning, he realized. Probably because thinking about either of his parents always made him edgy.
Then don’t.
Easier when he was far, far away from his not-so-beloved hometown.
He tuned in to discover that the others were talking, sounding more normal than they had earlier. Lia laughed at something Sorrel said, and he found himself staring. The sound was unexpectedly throaty and…honest. Most people tried to rein themselves in when they laughed. They didn’t surrender to the moment. Her head fell back and she shook with it. Amusement seemed to light her from within. His body tightened in automatic reaction and he made himself look away.
She was still smiling when she scanned the faces at the table. “Blueberry cobbler, anyone?”
Conall almost groaned. He’d intended to take off, but…homemade cobbler? “With ice cream?” he asked hopefully.
She laughed again, the first genuinely warm look she’d ever aimed directly at him. “Vanilla.”
“Then wow. Yes for me.”
Chortling nonsense sounds, Julia whacked her spoon on the tray. She was already a mess, sloppy joe sauce smeared on her fat cheeks. He could only imagine what blueberries would do to her.
Turned out Lia was smarter than that. The baby only got ice cream, her brother ice cream with a few berries stirred in. They both seemed satisfied. Everyone else ate with gusto and enthusiasm, even Walker and Brendan. It was hard to be depressed when every bite you put in your mouth was bliss on the spoon. This, he thought, was Lia’s talent. Or one of them, anyway. The ability to soothe and inspire and heal by the food she put on the table.
And with her smiles, too, unbelievably gentle for all the kids, a little different for Sorrel, as if with the tilt of her lips she was implying something conspiratorial: we girls are in this together. Her smiles for him were considerably more cautious, conventional. Conall didn’t blame her. She should be cautious around him.
He scraped his bowl clean and resisted the temptation to lick it even cleaner, then grinned. “That was the best thing I’ve eaten since I can remember. Thank you.”
Unless it was his imagination, a tiny bit of color touched her cheeks. “You’re welcome.”
“If I may be excused, I’m off to see my brother.”
“Duncan?” Walker asked.
“Yeah. Duncan.”
“Oh.” The boy ducked his head. When everyone waited, he asked, “Will he ever come see you here?”
“Ah…probably not.” Definitely, hell no, not.
The boy’s shoulders seemed to sag slightly. “Oh. Okay.”
Conall was still asking himself what that was about when he stuck his head upstairs to tell Henderson he was going, then walked out to the Suburban. What would Walker think if Conall told him that, after all his big brother had done for him, he hadn’t spoken to him in years? No mystery there—the kid wouldn’t understand.
Conall didn’t totally understand.
Brooding, he hit the first pothole out on the gravel road too fast, and thought for a minute he’d broken an axle and maybe a tooth.
Goddamn it, concentrate. This was a job. He hadn’t come home to muck around in the past.
Duncan, he discovered, had a pretty fancy place. Nothing cookie-cutter about it—angles and planes and shingled siding, very Northwest. Spectacular garden, too. The wife’s influence, maybe?
Conall didn’t suffer from nerves, but he felt a few twinges after he rang the doorbell. He rotated his shoulders to reduce the tension there was no reason to feel.
Even so, when the door opened he was balanced on the balls of his feet as if anticipating an attack. Ready for the worst, but making sure his body language looked relaxed. Acting.
When he saw the man in the opening, Conall thought, Damn. He would have known Duncan anywhere, but he’d changed, too. Aged. Well, of course he’d aged, but Conall was shocked to see that he had threads of silver in his dark hair. Not many, but a gathering at each temple. Of course, he was heading toward forty now.
In fact, he was close to the age of their father when they’d last seen him. And…the same age Mom had been? Was it possible?
The craggy face that looked more like Conall’s own than he was comfortable acknowledging was almost as expressionless as he remembered. But…not quite. He’d loosened up in some indefinable way.
“Conall.” He stepped back. “Come in.”
Conall dipped his head and walked in. He followed his brother past the living room to the kitchen, where a woman closed the dishwasher then turned to study him.
“Another MacLachlan,” she said with a small laugh. “Nobody could mistake you.”
He stiffened at that, but only said, “You must be Jane.”
“Yes. I’ll leave you two to talk, but I wanted to meet you.” She smiled and came to him, her hand outstretched. “Hello, Conall.”
She was a beauty. Not like Lia, but definitely classy. She moved like a dancer, toes slightly turned out, had a mass of glossy brown hair bundled carelessly at her nape, and deep blue eyes that were friendly but also watchful.
Suddenly amused, Conall suspected that if Duncan hadn’t been present, she’d have issued dire warnings. Hurt my husband and you’re dead meat. Strangely, he was pleased. She loved his big tough brother, who was a lucky son of a bitch.
Conall took her hand, but instead of shaking it he drew her to him and kissed her cheek. “It’s a pleasure, Jane.”
She eyed his deliberately charming smile with suspicion as she withdrew, heightening his amusement. Yeah, she might even be a match for Duncan. Go figure.
She excused herself, leaving the two men alone.
“Have you eaten?” Duncan asked.
“Yes.”
“Coffee?”
“Thanks.” He sat on one of the breakfast bar stools and rested his elbows on the counter. “Nice place.”
Duncan nodded.
“Baby asleep?”
“Yeah, she just went down for the night.”
“There’s a baby at the place I’m staying.” He didn’t know why he’d said that. “Eight months, I think. Happy little thing.”
“Fiona isn’t quite that.”
He knew exactly how old Duncan’s daughter was. He’d looked at the baby announcement in amazement when it arrived, and later the one photo Duncan sent. Until today, Duncan never commented on the fact that he didn’t hear back from Conall. Into the vacuum he kept sending a very occasional letter, things like the wedding invitation and then the birth announcement, sometimes a Christmas card. Conall had never figured out why he bothered.
Now…he