Wild Iris Ridge. RaeAnne Thayne

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      “That’s a relief. And you’re sure she had no burns?”

      “Positive.”

      He should have expected this interrogation. By his very nature, Dermot was concerned about everybody in Hope’s Crossing, but he especially fretted over those he had taken under his wing. For reasons known only to him, Dermot had developed a soft spot for Lucy from the moment she showed up in town to live with her great-aunt, all black clothes and pale makeup and a truckload full of attitude.

      Brendan sighed and sipped his coffee. When he’d decided on the spur of the moment to grab a quick bite of breakfast at the Center of Hope Café before he headed home, he had hoped he could avoid thinking about Lucy for five minutes—something he had found impossible throughout the night as he worked the rest of his shift.

      Dermot wasn’t making that task particularly easy by bringing the woman up the moment Brendan walked into the café. He should have known his father would have heard about the fire the night before, that it would be a central topic of discussion in town.

      Dermot knew everything that went on in Hope’s Crossing, from the precipitation level for the month to the color of Mayor Beaumont’s new suit. Owning the town’s most popular gathering spot meant he was usually privy to the best gossip and the most interesting tidbits.

      Flashing lights and an assortment of ladder and pumper trucks showing up in the middle of the night to one of the town’s historic silver baron mansions would certainly have set tongues wagging.

      The minute Brendan walked into the café, Dermot had demanded all the details about the chimney fire excitement at Iris House—and particularly about the juicy rumors that Lucy Drake had been the cause of it.

      “Where did she spend the night, do you know?”

      He sighed. “Can’t tell you that, Pop. Sorry I didn’t think to press her for more details about her lodging arrangements. I was a little busy. You know, putting out the fire and all.”

      Dermot was unfazed by his dry response. With six strapping sons and a daughter, very little could faze his father, especially not a bit of mild sarcasm.

      “I hadn’t heard she was coming back to town, had you?”

      “No. She didn’t tell me.” A little warning would have been nice. Air-raid sirens, at the very least.

      “How long is she planning to stay?”

      “No idea,” he answered.

      “Well, have you told the children yet?” Dermot persisted. “Carter and Faith will be thrilled to see her, won’t they? Why, Faith is always talking about her aunt Lucy sending her this or that, video-conferencing with her on the computer, emailing her a special note.”

      He picked up his coffee cup with another sigh. So much for hoping he could eat a hearty breakfast without having to think about the woman for five minutes.

      “I haven’t seen them yet. I had a meeting first thing when my shift ended and didn’t catch them before they left for school this morning. Mrs. Madison took them. My plan was to grab some breakfast here and then head home and crash for a few hours until school is out. I’m sure I’ll have the chance to tell them later.”

      They would be over the moon at the unexpected treat of a visit from their favorite aunt. Lucy wasn’t truly their aunt. She and Jess had been cousins, linked mostly through their relationship with Annabelle, but his late wife had adored Lucy like a sister.

      She had been the maid of honor at their wedding. In typical Lucy fashion, she had been too busy to come back for any of the pre-matrimonial events until the weekend of the wedding, where she had appeared late to the rehearsal dinner with apologies about a last-minute meeting she couldn’t miss and then had left early from the reception to catch a flight.

      “They do love her,” Dermot said. “She’s been good to them, hasn’t she? As busy as they keep her at that outfit where she works, she still somehow found time to fly down for Faith’s birthday last year, remember? Just to take her to Denver. Faith didn’t stop talking about the ballet and the shopping for weeks.”

      Right. Lucy was a saint.

      “Faith didn’t make some plans with Lucy again to bring her to town, did she?”

      “Not that I know about,” he answered. He only knew she had been in Hope’s Crossing less than eight hours and he was already tired of her.

      “Pop, can we talk about something else?”

      “Something else?”

      “I don’t know why Lucy Drake is back in town, and to be honest with you, I don’t care much. I only want the little idiot to stay out of my way and to do her best not to burn down Iris House again.”

      “Darn. I guess that means I’ll have to return all the cans of gasoline and the jumbo box of matches I just bought at the hardware store.”

      If he hadn’t been distracted by the tantalizing smell of bacon after a long shift, he would have smelled Lucy come into the diner before she even spoke. She always wore some kind of subtle, probably expensive scent that reminded him of cream-drenched strawberries.

      He swiveled, ignoring Dermot’s disapproving glower. She looked none the worse for wear after her adventures of the night before, fresh and bright and lovely.

      She was wearing a leather jacket the color of deer hide, tailored and supple, with a scarlet scarf tied in some kind of intricate loose knot around her neck. She looked sophisticated and urbane and, as usual when he was around her, he felt like a dumb jock with more brawn than brains.

      “If you saved your receipt,” he drawled, fighting back against his own stupid sense of inadequacy, “I’m sure Mose Lewis at the hardware store will take it all back.”

      She made a face then plopped onto the stool next to him, leaned across the counter and gave Pop a big smacking kiss on the cheek.

      “Dermot. You’re as handsome as ever. I’m still waiting for you to get tired of this one-horse town and run away with me. You’d never have to pour a cup of coffee again.”

      The tips of his pop’s ears turned red and he smiled, pouring her a cup of coffee.

      When he spoke, the traces of Irish accent that still sprinkled his speech intensified. “I have to say, that’s a verra appealing offer, m’darling, but I’m afraid I would miss my grandchildren too much.”

      “Ah, well. I guess I’ll have to ease my broken heart with some of your luscious French toast. I’ve been dreaming about it since I left King County.”

      Pop beamed at this, as his greatest joy was feeding people—especially those who held a soft spot in his big, generous heart, which certainly qualified Lucy.

      “Coming right up. You just sit there and enjoy much better coffee than you’ll ever find in Seattle while you listen to my stubborn son apologize for his rudeness.”

      “I can’t wait,” she murmured.

      Apparently, Brendan wasn’t the only one who could wax sarcastic in the morning.

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