His throat tightened and he swallowed, hard.
Not the direction his thoughts should be taking.
Annabeth led him into a small parlor overlooking the back of the house. Hunter set his hat on the closest chair and moved to the window. He looked out just as a burst of warm, golden light washed over a pack of children at play in the wide, manicured yard. A group of boys was tossing a ball between them, while some girls were holding hands and spinning in a fast circle. Was Sarah among them?
This time it was his heart that tightened. With expectation, hope, jumpiness.
“I thought you and Sarah would have your initial meeting here.” Annabeth’s voice came from directly behind him. “Will that be acceptable?”
He turned slowly around, taking in the parlor with a practiced eye, locating the exits first then the rest of the room in stages. He ignored the fancy furniture, and focused on the textures and nuances. The attention to detail was impossible to miss, the small area elegant and stylish.
On the surface, this parlor was far too formal a setting to meet a child in for the first time. But if a person looked past the Persian rugs, the expensive furniture, and the crystal vases filled with fresh-cut flowers, there was warmth in the decor.
Another sense of homecoming filled him. He felt at ease. “This room is perfectly acceptable.”
Eyes wide, Annabeth’s face went through a series of odd little contortions.
He stifled a chuckle at her reaction. “You thought I’d find the room too fancy.” He made a point of sitting on the most delicate piece of furniture he could find. “You wanted me to feel uncomfortable.”
“I... Yes. I suppose I did.” Her cheeks turned a becoming shade of pink as she made the admission.
Well, well. The timid girl had turned into a scrappy fighter. Rather than finding her tactics insulting, Hunter found himself amused at her attempt to gain the upper hand in such a sneaky manner. And maybe he was a bit impressed, too. Not that she needed to know any of this. In fact, best to keep her on the defense. “Badly done, Annabeth.”
“Yes, it was. I—” she tangled her fingers together at her waist “—apologize.”
Feeling gracious, he inclined his head. “Apology accepted.”
The tension between them lessened. Not that it mattered. He hadn’t come to see her. Or so he told himself. Yet here they were, holding one another’s gazes, both breathing slowly, something good and right swirling between them.
He cleared his throat.
At the same moment, Annabeth threw back her shoulders.
“I... I’ll just go fetch Sarah now.” She sounded practical and brisk, but sorrow pooled in her eyes, a sadness so deep Hunter drew a sharp breath.
He went to her.
Not sure what he meant to do, he took her hand. There were faint shadows beneath her eyes, a sure sign she’d endured a sleepless night.
He tightened his hold on her hand. A moment of shared pain passed between them, so raw, so fresh, neither pulled away. He must have stared too long, seen too much, because she frowned, then yanked her hand free of his. “Wait here.”
“Of course.”
Alone with his thoughts, he felt a bout of nerves kindle and fire through his blood until he could remain in one place no longer. Letting out a hiss, he paced the room. Back and forth, back and forth. Back. And. Forth.
Hope squeezed in his chest. If he played this right, if he stayed on the narrow path and settled down once and for all, he could have the life he’d always wanted, the one he’d nearly achieved with Jane.
Dare he try again? Did he deserve to have a family of his own, not in the role of a husband to his wife, but as a father to his daughter? Or were there too many mistakes on his ledger to hope for a smooth, uncomplicated existence?
The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled, sending alarm tripping down his spine. The same sensation had kept him alive in more than one gunfight. Motionless, afraid of what he would see, he didn’t turn around to face the parlor’s entrance. He closed his eyes and opened his other senses instead.
Holding steady, he sorted through the sounds coming from various points throughout the house. He focused in on the high-pitched prattle of a young female voice mingling with an older, more familiar one. The rapid staccato of the conversation made it impossible for him to decipher the words.
But he knew those footsteps.
Annabeth. Her return was a mere seconds away. That meant the other voice must belong to Sarah.
Sarah.
Hunter’s hand started to shake. Flexing his fingers, he opened his eyes and resolved to keep his emotions contained.
No mistakes.
No loss of control.
Calm. Cool. Careful.
The wait was endless, an eternity. The voices grew louder, closer. The individual words were muffled as they mingled with the footsteps, but there was obvious affection in both female voices. Love, too.
Hunter’s throat closed shut.
His daughter—if she was his daughter—was well loved. By Annabeth. And no doubt others who lived in this house. His shoulders shifted, then went still again. He forced himself to turn toward the doorway, to remain calm as he did so.
With his arms hanging loosely by his sides, he planted his feet a little apart and tried not to hold his breath.
Another moment passed.
And then...
Annabeth entered the room, her jawline tight. The moment their gazes connected her eyes deepened to a dark violet, the color of thunderclouds. The unmistakable warning beneath the turbulent expression was easy enough to read.
A wasted gesture. Hunter had no intention of hurting his own daughter. Or Annabeth. Regardless of what she thought.
A young girl suddenly shifted into view. And smiled directly at him.
He fell back a step.
Oh, Lord. Lord.
Restraint shattered. Calm evaporated. Well-thought-out speeches died on his tongue. The only emotions left were shock, and longing. Painful, heartrending longing for something always just out reach.
He hurt, at the core of his being. The sense of loss was overwhelming, loss over all he’d missed in his daughter’s life.
And, yes, this happy child was his daughter. He had absolutely no doubt. Her hair was the exact color of her mother’s, her dark coloring the same. But it was his eyes staring back at him in that small, thin face.
His daughter had his eyes. And his tall, lean build, mostly lanky at her age. He’d been lanky as a child, too. As had all of his brothers and sisters. It was a Mitchell trait.
This girl was a Mitchell, through and through.
What was he supposed to say now? Nine years ago he’d created this beautiful child with a woman who hadn’t wanted him, who’d rejected him. Lied to him, prevented him from knowing his own flesh and blood.
Feeling mildly desperate, torn between anger and distress, he glanced at Annabeth for assistance. She was studying her feet as though all the secrets of the world were in the flowered rug beneath her toes.
No help there.
Sarah solved the problem for him. “Hello.” She continued beaming up at him. “I’m Sarah. Who are you?”
There