A convenient proposal

Mick considered that statement for a moment, before nodding. “Good. ’Cause no way is Child Welfare getting involved in this case. If Danny’s family needs help, then I’m the one to give it to them.”

“No question those kids need you, Mick. You’re their uncle. But what I wonder is…” She hesitated. Who was she to point fingers?

“Yeah?”

Deciding the welfare of the children called for honesty, she continued. “Well, with the hours you put in at the paper, and the way Sharon’s been drinking…something really bad could happen to them, Mick. They need more.”

They need me. Kelly didn’t voice the last part, but the conviction that she had to help this family remained.

CHAPTER TWO

AFTER MICK HAD GONE INSIDE to check on Billy and Amanda, Kelly returned to her truck. Instead of heading to her basement apartment on the other side of town, she cruised back to the highway, almost instinctively drawn to the Larch Lodge Bed and Breakfast, which Cathleen had renovated several years ago.

Cathleen and Dylan wouldn’t be there. They’d flown to Vegas for a delayed honeymoon, leaving Poppy O’Leary to run the place for the week. Seventy-year-old Poppy had been staying there for about six months now, working on her family tree and a treasury of favorite recipes. During the weeks after the shooting, when Kelly had been a guest at the B and B, too, she and Poppy had become quite close.

Kelly eased off the accelerator and coasted the final yards of the laneway. Now in full view of the house, she could see Poppy’s mop of artificial-red curls as she worked at the kitchen sink in front of the window. Probably she was organizing tomorrow’s breakfast for the guests. Three unknown vehicles were parked, along with Poppy’s red Tracker, at the side of the house. Kelly left her truck at the end of the line, then headed for the side veranda.

“Poppy?” Kelly stuck her head inside the door. Cathleen’s dog looked at her lazily, managing only a slight wag of his tail. Curled up beside him was a beautiful white cat, the latest addition to Cathleen’s menagerie. Dylan had adopted Crystal shortly after his mother’s death, and Crystal had promptly adopted Kip as her closest buddy. A relationship Kip tolerated but obviously did not enjoy.

“Kelly! I was hoping you’d show up. Come on in and sit. I’ve got a new muffin recipe for you to sample.”

Poppy’s solution to every problem was food. Which was ironic given that the common Shannon family reaction to stress was an aversion to eating. Kelly knew she’d dropped pounds since the shooting, and Cathleen was just now regaining the weight she’d lost during the two years she and Dylan had been estranged. Then there was Maureen, who’d looked not only too slender at her last visit, but too pale, as well. Of course, only six months had passed since her husband’s death.

“You must think we Shannons are a sorry bunch.” Kelly tore the paper liner off the still-warm muffin. She could see sunflower seeds and raisins peeking out from the golden-brown crust. The aroma of honeyed spices was enticing.

“Every family has its hard times.” Poppy took a glass measure and poured in milk. She popped the milk into the microwave to heat, then mixed a paste of cocoa and sugar in Kelly’s favorite ceramic mug.

Bless her heart, she was making the hot chocolate that Kelly loved.

“I was looking at the cottonwoods on Memorial Drive today, and thinking.” She could see the dark trunks in her mind’s eye, the bare winter branches reaching, almost desperately, to the sky.

“When you were in Calgary?”

Poppy knew about her weekly sessions with the RCMP counselor.

“Yes. I really feel for those war vets coming home and having to deal with the atrocities they’d seen and participated in overseas.”

“Times were different then. The men knew they’d done their duty for their country. On their return, they were treated like heroes.”

“Do you really think it was that simple, Poppy?”

The microwave beeped, and Poppy took out the steaming milk. “No,” she admitted, “I guess not.”

“Compared with what they went through, my experience is pure Little League.”

Poppy set the mug of hot chocolate in front of her. “It doesn’t feel Little League, though, does it?”

Kelly pressed her lips tightly together and shook her head. With both hands she cupped the warm mug. In the end, despite the appetizing aroma, she’d been unable to stomach the muffin. This she could handle. She took a sip, and the creamy, warm liquid glided down her throat.

“You take everything so much to heart.” Poppy’s old eyes contained warmth and compassion—benefactions Kelly knew she didn’t deserve, but craved so desperately.

Poppy laid a hand on her arm. “You’re such a softy, aren’t you, love. And your sisters have no idea. They see you as strong and stalwart.”

“I am strong. I’m the youngest, but I’ve always looked out for Cath and Maureen. They tease me about being a mother hen….”

“Those two! They’re so impulsive and confident. They don’t know how it feels to be otherwise. I’m sure they’ve never even guessed how badly your father’s desertion hurt you.”

“Oh!” It was unbelievable how Poppy always honed in on the important things. Kelly had spoken of those feelings to no one. Not even to her mother when she’d been alive. Now Kelly regarded this amazing woman with a touch of awe.

“How can you understand us so well, when you’ve only known us such a short time?”

Poppy’s hand tightened on Kelly’s forearm. “My dear Kelly, it isn’t hard. You were a sensitive child, living in a house full of self-assured, outgoing women. It’s not that they didn’t love you to death. From all I’ve heard about your mother, I know she did, and your sisters still do. They just aren’t equipped to understand….”

Tears again were too close. Kelly sipped more liquid, then found herself wanting to tell Poppy more. “I was just a baby when Dad left. I didn’t even know him. How could I miss him?”

Poppy leaned back in her chair. She was quiet, but Kelly didn’t mind the silence. Her head was too full of her own thoughts.

She knew the story of her father’s restlessness, recounted endlessly by her elder sisters when they were kids. After each baby was born, he’d left their mother for a while, always to return about a year later.

Except the last time.

“What was wrong with me, Poppy? How come he didn’t come back for me, like he did for the others?”

“Oh, love. He missed so much, your dad.”

But what he’d missed had been by his choice. That was what was so hard for Kelly to accept. As a kid she’d made up stories to take that choice away. He’d been in an accident and suffered from amnesia…. He’d been arrested for a crime he hadn’t committed and didn’t want them to know he’d been sent to jail….

Of course, as an adult, and a cop, she could no longer delude herself. She knew the statistics on how many men walked away from their families, never to be heard from again. These things just had to be accepted.

“Poppy, I had a happy childhood. And even though we didn’t have a father and money was kind of tight, we were much better off than so many children I see in my line of work.”

Which brought her thoughts back to Billy and Amanda. And to their uncle, whose sad face had been haunting under the glow of the streetlight. His intentions were good, but what could he really do to help the situation?

What could any of them do? Kelly swallowed the last of her cocoa. She wished she could curl up here all night, warm and cozy in Poppy’s kitchen.

“Would you like to stay over, love?” Poppy asked, reading her mind yet again. “The rooms are full, but there’s the pullout couch in the study.”

“Thanks, Poppy, but I’d better get home.” When she woke in the night, as she always did, it was better not to have to worry about waking anyone else. Besides, once Poppy left the room, the magic of this place was gone.

“I guess it’s time I was leaving.”

“You didn’t eat your muffin. Shall I wrap a few for your breakfast?”

Kelly didn’t have the heart to say no.

SHARON WAS TOTALLY WASTED. At least a half-dozen empty bottles of beer were strewn on the floor. Mick could hear her snoring on the sofa as he stepped out of the children’s room. He was thankful they’d finally fallen asleep. Amanda had dropped off quickly, but poor Billy had been full of his usual questions.

Where was his dad, and how long would he be dead? The kid just couldn’t seem to grasp the concept of forever. Which was maybe a blessing.

Mick stepped over some scattered building blocks on his way to the bathroom. The sink was a mess. He cleaned it, then grabbed the laundry basket Sharon kept next to the tub. Full again.

This house didn’t come with a washer or drier, and Sharon wasn’t often capable of making it to the Laundromat, so he’d started doing the family’s laundry at home. If he left now, he’d get a load done before bed, but he hated to go with Sharon passed out like that.

What if there was a problem with one of the kids during the night? Sharon might not hear them.

He returned to the kitchen, where a box of sugarcoated cereal and two dirty glasses gave him a good idea of what the kids had eaten for dinner. He picked up one of the plastic tumblers and sniffed.

Cola.

Opening the fridge, he saw a carton of milk, unopened. The liter of cola, however, was almost all gone.

Well, he couldn’t blame the kids. If he were five, he supposed he’d make the same menu choices.

But what was Sharon eating? As far as he could tell, these days her diet was purely liquid.

Halfway through cleaning up the kitchen, Mick collapsed onto one of the chairs.

What the hell was he going to do?

From the living room came a protracted groan. Good, Sharon was waking. He put on a pot of coffee and popped two slices of whole wheat bread into the toaster.

“Oh, God…what time is it?” Sharon’s voice held a touch of panic.

He went to check on her. “Almost ten. How do you feel?”

Sharon could be a pretty girl when she made an effort, but booze and a general disregard for cleanliness did not bring out her best attributes. Mick felt like throwing her in the shower. Instead, he held out a hand and pulled her into the kitchen.

“Did the kids have dinner?” Sharon asked, sinking into a kitchen chair.

“Dry cereal and cola.”

“Good.”

Mick caught the ghostly flash of her sardonic smile.

“This isn’t working out, you know,” he said. He put a mug of black coffee in front of her. “Drink this. Then eat some toast.”

She pushed the plate away. “I can’t. Just the smell makes me nauseous.”

“Too bad. Your body needs food.” He slid the plate back to her, watching as with shaking hands she lifted the mug to her mouth.

“You must be getting sick of baby-sitting us, Mick.”

“I’ll do what I’ve got to do. But you have to start feeding those kids right, and getting them to bed at a decent hour.” He thought about Kelly Shannon’s comment about their pajamas. “And put them in their snowsuits when they go outside to play.”

“I know, I know.” Sharon closed her eyes and rubbed at her forehead.

“I’m serious. They’re going to get sick.”

“I’m trying, Mickey. I’m doing the best I can.”

He believed her. The best she could do was worthless, though, as long as she was drinking. “You need to get back on the program, Sharon. The way you did before Amanda was born.”

When he’d found out his brother and his wife were expecting their second child, he’d all but dragged them to that first meeting, worried about what Sharon’s drinking could do to her unborn child. It was still a miracle to him that Billy had turned out so normal.

His suggestion had Sharon crying now. “I can’t go, Mickey. I can’t stop drinking with Danny gone. It’s too soon. I’m not ready.”

“Sure it’s hard, but you’ve got to be strong. You’ve got to think of your kids.”

The tears came faster; Sharon’s sobs hiccuped, then intensified.

“I can’t do this. I’m so alone….”

He reached over to stroke her head. “I’m here, Sharon. I’ll help you.”

“I don’t see how you can.”

“I’ll take you to the meetings, help you with the kids.”

Sharon shook her head. “And what about the new one?”

“Huh?”

“I’m pregnant, Mickey. The new baby will be here in seven months.”

MICK DIDN’T DRINK. There was too much alcoholism in his family. His mother and his brother. Probably his father, too, although unlike his half brother, Danny, he’d never figured out exactly who that was.

So Mick did what he always did when he couldn’t sleep. Sat in his darkened living room and stared out the large picture window. A nearby streetlamp cast a dull yellow light on the road and the houses beyond, but it didn’t really matter, because Mick wasn’t paying any attention to the view. The problems of his brother’s family were too heavy in his mind.

What the hell was he going to do about Amanda and Billy? Kelly was right; the situation was poised for disaster. With his years of journalism, it was all too easy to imagine his family in the headlines again.

Two Children Killed In House Fire. Mother too drunk to call 911….

Children Hospitalized For Malnutrition. Mother currently under police investigation….

If only Danny hadn’t died. The family had finally been doing okay. Sharon hadn’t fallen off the wagon once since Amanda’s birth. Danny’s job with Max Strongman had lasted over a year—his longest period of steady employment ever.

Then Mick thought of the stash of illegal drugs the police had found in one of the barns when they’d searched the Thunder Bar M after Danny’s death, and knew he was fooling himself. Danny hadn’t been as rehabilitated as he’d hoped.

The red light on his answering machine caught his eye, but he just turned away. If it was work, they’d try his cell. As for his friends, well, he no longer had time for the mountain biking and cross-country skiing that had formerly occupied his non-working hours. He’d given up all his leisure activities to look after Danny’s kids.

And Kelly was right again. It wasn’t enough. Especially now that there was a third child on the way. To think of how much drinking Sharon had been doing these past two months made Mick sick. She’d promised she would shower in the morning and get ready for him to take her to the doctor. Later in the week, he’d try to convince her to go back to AA.

But that was all he could do for her. And in his heart he knew it wasn’t enough.

So what were his options?

Mick stretched out his legs and leaned his head back. The most obvious solution was one he could hardly bring himself to think about, let alone seriously consider.

He could marry Sharon and take responsibility for his brother’s family.

Every cell in his body, though, protested that route. That he didn’t love Sharon, had never even liked her, wasn’t the main problem. He didn’t see how he could partner up with a woman he couldn’t respect. His mother had been a drunk. He couldn’t, just couldn’t, marry another one. Especially one who put the bottle ahead of her children.

But if he didn’t marry Sharon, where did that leave him?

As Kelly had said—God, every point the woman had made had been bang on—he didn’t have the time to look after them himself. He supposed he could seek custody, then hire a nanny.

But those kids needed permanence—a family, a home. He loved them as if they were his own. Wanted them to have everything he and his brother had never had.

A mom and a dad. Regular bedtimes and mealtimes. Clean clothes, and a cake and a few gifts on their birthdays….

The more he thought about it, the more Mick came to realize that his first instincts had been right. Marriage was the solution. Just not to Sharon.

CHAPTER THREE

“HEY, KIDS! Here’s a new cereal you’ll really like. It’s got marshmallows and chocolate and…”

Billy Mizzoni’s stomach growled. He turned away from the cheerful TV commercial and looked at his sister on the couch beside him. “Hungry, Mandy?”

His sister nodded. She had her thumb in her mouth and was holding the flannel blanket that was supposed to be for her doll.

It was weird. His sister hadn’t sucked her thumb when she was a baby, but now she did. She’d also stopped talking, and had started peeing her pants at night.

He didn’t mind the stopped-talking part, but the accidents at night were getting to him, since they shared the same bed.

“Come on.” Billy led the way to the kitchen. It was all tidy again, like it usually was after Uncle Mick came to visit. He opened the bottom cupboard and surveyed boxes of cereal and crackers. Most he didn’t recognize. That made him suspicious. They might have vegetables or something in them. He reached for the golden box that had once been his favorite, the type they’d just seen advertised on TV.

Amanda made a face when he poured some into a bowl for her. Maybe she was getting sick of it, just like he was. But he didn’t know what else to give her.

In the old days, before his daddy went to heaven, his mom usually made them toast and gave them juice in the mornings. But she was still sleeping now. He kind of hoped she’d keep sleeping a long time. She’d been sick a lot since Daddy died.

Billy went to the fridge but couldn’t find the leftover pop from last night. A carton of milk had been pushed into its place, and it even had the spout opened.

Oh, well. He picked it up and poured some into each of their bowls. Mandy looked surprised. They usually ate their cereal dry.

“There isn’t any pop,” he explained.

She shrugged and picked up her spoon.

Billy gobbled down his cereal in a flash. Boy, he was really hungry. But the cereal didn’t taste as yummy as usual. He’d almost prefer toast and peanut butter, the way Mommy used to make it.

He supposed she’d make it again, once Daddy got back from this “forever” place that Uncle Mick kept talking about. Hopefully soon. Billy missed him, although he didn’t miss the lickings that were supposed to make him “grow up right.”

“Want to play outside?” he asked his sister.

Again, Mandy just nodded. No matter what he asked her, she always agreed.

“We could make a fort. It snowed again last night.” He thought that might get her excited, but she just moved her head up and down and waited calmly for him to lead the way.

At the side door, Billy saw boots and mittens propped right in his path. Next to them lay the snowsuits Uncle Mick had bought them a few weeks ago. They were complicated things with legs attached to the coat part. It was easier to put on lighter jackets and runners. It wasn’t that cold outside.

Unlatching the screen, he had to shield his eyes from the sun. Gosh, the snow was deep. They’d be able to make a great fort. He grabbed Mandy’s little hand and half dragged her to the front yard. Once there, he glanced automatically to the street. Would that lady be sitting in her car watching them again?

Sure enough, there she was. Just about every day since his dad had died, he’d seen her. Watching him and Mandy, as if she was an angel or something, sent by his dad. He’d seen a movie like that, once on TV.

He wondered if she had any magical powers. But so far he hadn’t seen signs of any.

ALMOST TWO WEEKS LATER, Mick had made important strides in finding himself a wife. He shut down his computer for the night and was grabbing his coat from the rack by the window, when the door to his office swung open. Expecting that Abby had decided to meet him here, rather than at the restaurant, he turned with a smile.

Which quickly disappeared when the mayor of Canmore, Max Strongman, entered the room. Tall and still handsome in his fifties, the mayor appeared to feel he had every right to be showing up well past office hours.

“Taking off, were you?” Max made it sound as though it were slothful for Mick to be leaving the office at seven in the evening. With all the assurance of someone used to calling the shots, he settled into the chair opposite Mick’s desk.

Reluctantly, Mick returned to his own seat. “I’ve got a date in ten minutes so I’m in a bit of a hurry.” He glanced at his watch and thought of the reservation he’d made at Sinclair’s, and Abby’s proclivity to be on time.

“Don’t worry. This isn’t a social call. I’m worried about those grandchildren of mine. Word is, their mother’s been doing a lot of drinking. Making a bit of a scene at the local bars.”

That Max Strongman had been Danny’s father was something Mick had only discovered after his brother’s death. Somehow he’d never drawn the connection to Billy and Amanda, but of course Strongman was right. He was their grandfather.

“I’m worried, too,” Mick confessed.

“Then, why don’t you do something about it? I can’t have my own grandkids turned into street urchins. Can you imagine how that would look to all my bleeding-heart voters?”

Mick had never liked Max Strongman, but in that instant, he hated him. The man didn’t care about Billy’s and Amanda’s welfare. He was concerned about his public image.

A public image that Mick, in his weekly editorial, did his best to challenge whenever the facts would allow—which wasn’t often, because Max was wily and smart and not prone to making mistakes.

For a time, Mick had wondered if he wasn’t wrong about the mayor. But then Rose Strongman had been murdered, and his suspicions were renewed.

He had a soft spot for Strongman’s deceased wife. Years ago, when she’d still been married to her first husband, she’d been at the elementary school as a volunteer helper and had noticed Mick languishing out in the school yard.

He could still remember how cool her palm had felt when she placed it to his forehead, and how sweet she’d smelled when she’d bent low to take his hand.

“You’re sick, aren’t you? What’s your name, son?”

He’d told her, and immediately seen by her reaction that she’d connected him to his mother. He was used to people pulling away when they realized who he really was.

But Rose McLean—as she was then—had asked the principal for permission to take him home. She put him in her own son’s bed, served him broth and gave him medicine. Never in his life had he received so much attention.

Then she’d phoned his mother and asked for permission to keep him overnight. She’d said he was good company for her own son, Dylan, although in truth the older boy had barely deigned to notice him. The next day, unfortunately, his fever had broken, and after lunch she’d driven him back to school. He’d had a bath and was wearing a new pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. His mother never asked him about the clothes, and he’d never forgotten Rose Strongman’s wonderful act of charity.

So watching the changes in her character during her long marriage to Strongman had torn at his gut. Several times over the years he’d gone to her, offering to help if she’d let him. Every time she’d pretended that she was ill, that Max was a caring husband, that he shouldn’t worry.

And then suddenly it was too late. She was dead, murdered in her own living room. After weeks of investigation—focused primarily on her son, Dylan—the evidence had begun to point to Max Strongman’s son, James. Before the police could question him, James disappeared following a one-way flight to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. Not only was Mick convinced that Max was behind his son’s disappearance, he also suspected he may have had a hand in the crime itself.

Of course, he dared not print a word of his suspicions in the paper without evidence. Evidence that probably didn’t exist.

Now Mick glared at the man in front of him, and wished he had the nerve to tell him to go to hell. But Max’s biological ties to the children made him nervous. “What, exactly, do you expect me to do?”

Strongman seemed to take a perverse pleasure in Mick’s hostility. He smiled, satisfied and confident, as he leaned back in his chair. “I expect you to take custody of those kids and see to it they’re raised right.”