Healing the Widower's Heart. Susan Mason Anne

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      “Who’s Jerry?”

      “He helps me run the camp. Mainly he’s in charge of the sports and the outdoor activities.” Maybe if Zach knew there’d be a male involved with the camp—that it wasn’t just a bunch of girls—he’d be more excited.

      “What kind of sports?”

      “All kinds. Canoeing, swimming, volleyball, baseball. You name it, we play it.” She smiled down at him, grateful for the small spark of interest. She’d take any opening she could get. “Let’s go see if we can find Misty and her babies.”

      * * *

      Nathan tried to relax in one of the deck chairs on the big stone porch, but his mind was consumed with Zach and how he might be behaving—or misbehaving—with Paige McFarlane. Judging from his son’s initial reaction, Nathan doubted it was going well.

      He stood and paced the deck, hands clasped behind his back. Never had he felt so frustrated, so helpless. Since Cynthia’s tragic death, Zach’s behavior had escalated in severity, and nothing Nathan said or did seemed to make a difference. It was a double blow to him since helping people was an integral part of who he was, both personally and professionally. As a pastor, he used to pride himself on his ability to shepherd his congregation through the worst times of their lives. But that all changed the moment his life fell apart, crumbling his faith.

      Now he seemed incapable of helping anyone—least of all himself.

      His thoughts turned to Paige McFarlane, and an uneasy emotion churned in his chest. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected—maybe someone with bifocals and a double chin. Certainly nothing had prepared him for her.

      What kind of experience could she possibly have? Was he making a huge mistake entrusting his son’s emotional well-being to someone still in school?

      Nathan sighed and looked at his watch. They’d been gone for almost an hour. Was that a good sign or bad? He started to say a prayer for his son, but anger rose up instead, and he pushed the thoughts away.

      Praying was the last thing he could depend on. His wreck of a life proved that.

Chapter Two

      Paige smiled as she watched Zach cuddle the tiny ball of orange fluff close to his chest. After a few seconds, the pitiful mews stopped and the kitten curled up to sleep, soothed by Zach’s steady heartbeat. Seated beside him in the straw, Paige stroked Misty’s gray head, while three other wriggling bodies struggled to find a comfortable spot against their mother.

      Paige glanced over at Zach, relieved to see the tense lines of his face had relaxed. “You like the orange one best?”

      “Yeah. I’d name him Willy if he were mine.”

      “Good name.” The slight upturn of his mouth in response sent a thrill of satisfaction through her. “Do you have any pets at home?”

      The hard, angry look returned. “My dad won’t let me.”

      Paige’s heart clutched, remembering how her old hound dog, Chester, had absorbed buckets of her tears after Colin died. The unconditional love of a pet might be the perfect remedy to help Zach through his grief. “That’s too bad. Do you or your dad have allergies?”

      He shook his head. “Dad says pets are too much trouble.”

      Paige held back a comment, knowing she was walking on thin ice. One wrong word and the delicate trust she’d established would collapse. “Well, while you’re here, Willy can be your pet. Would you like that?”

      “Really?” The tentative smile reappeared.

      “Sure. But he has to stay with his mother. He’s too young to leave her yet.”

      “I’ll come and visit him here then.”

      “Sounds like a plan.” She stood and brushed the straw off her shorts and shirt. “We’d better get back to the inn before your dad gets worried.”

      The scowl returned. “He won’t be worried. He hates me.”

      Paige could only stare as Zach placed the kitten down beside its siblings. “Why would you say your dad hates you?” She closed the barn door behind them and made sure the latch had caught.

      Zach shrugged, his eyes trained on the ground as he walked. “He yells at me all the time. He’s always mad.”

      Nathan Porter didn’t exactly exude a sunny disposition, but what could you expect from a man who’d just lost his wife? “Your dad’s not himself right now. Sometimes when adults seem angry, they’re really hiding how sad they are.” Her heart ached for Nathan and his son. She remembered all too well the feeling of being mired so deep in grief she thought she’d suffocate.

      “My dad’s not sad. He’s glad my mom’s dead. Except now he’s stuck with me.”

      Paige fought to keep her jaw from dropping. For a second time, Zach had stunned her into silence. She decided against saying anything else until she’d had a chance to talk to Nathan Porter. Something a lot deeper than grief was going on between father and son.

      Something she needed to figure out before she went any further.

      * * *

      By two o’clock, Paige had tidied her office in anticipation of her appointment with Nathan. She’d made arrangements with George’s wife, Catherine, to look after Zach while they talked. After the last piece of paper had been filed, Paige stood back to survey the small room with a twinge of dismay. The surplus metal desk, file cabinet, ancient laptop and scarred wooden credenza didn’t exactly portray the professional impression she’d like. But then she’d never imagined entertaining patients here.

      Still she’d done her best to cheer the place up with a couple of soft lamps, a few pieces of artwork and some pictures of her favorite moments at Wyndermere.

      A sharp knock brought her back to the present. She wiped her damp palms on her shorts and exhaled. “Come in.”

      Nathan Porter stepped inside, his larger-than-life presence making the room seem to shrink in size. He’d changed into a casual polo shirt, navy shorts and sneakers, which made him a little less intimidating than wearing a suit and tie. Still the air crackled with a subtle tension. Too bad his attitude hadn’t relaxed, as well.

      “Mr. Porter. Thank you for coming. Please sit down.” She indicated the chair across from her desk. As he folded his tall frame onto the chair, she prayed for the right words to reach him.

      “Look, Miss McFarlane,” he said curtly before she could begin, “I don’t want you to feel obligated to help my son. I’m sure George coerced you into doing this.”

      A band of heat crept up her neck, but she lifted her chin, determined to keep a professional image. “George asked me to see what I could do for Zach, and I agreed to try.”

      He let out a defeated breath that matched the tired lines around his eyes. “Are you aware that professional therapists have failed to get anywhere with him?”

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