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frustrated and a bit shaky. Mrs. Thao had told him his daughter wasn’t working up to her potential. When he’d examined samples of Rosie’s classwork, he’d discovered she wasn’t working much at all. Half-finished math papers, half-assed compositions.
    Turning down Front Street, he muttered a curse. He could check her homework for completion; he couldn’t monitor what she did in the classroom. And he couldn’t expect Mrs. Thao to fuss over Rosie, one-on-one. Rosie would have to quit her game of slow-motion sabotage or risk failing the year. He’d have to lay down the law, arrange to check in with her teacher on a regular basis, show his daughter he could be damn stubborn when it came to succeeding at something that mattered.
    Just what they both needed: more tension at home.
    He’d hoped Rosie would have begun to settle down, to resign herself to the situation and the fact she’d be staying with him for a while. Quite a while, if he could make it stick. But it seemed she’d decided to shut down in addition to shutting him out. And he didn’t know how to reach her.
    Maybe he needed some help. Maybe that was what they both needed.
    Too bad the idea tangled his gut and yanked on the knots. His morning coffee nearly bored a hole in his stomach lining at the thought of seeing a counselor. Rosie might shift tactics to open rebellion. Nancy would probably use it as a weapon in a custody battle. And he damn well didn’t want to dredge up all the bitter mistakes of his own past, just when he was able to focus on the future.
    He swung into the job site, ready to sweep aside the mess of his personal life and concentrate on work he knew how to do, with tools he knew how to wield. Ready to make tangible progress to offset his failures.
    He expected to see Rusty, one of his crew members, digging footings with Quinn Construction’s brand-new backhoe while Trap and Wylie Lundgren cleared the rest of the site with their excavating equipment. Instead, he saw the Lundgrens standing with his own men near the backhoe. Rusty trudged toward Quinn’s truck, a frown on his face and worry in his eyes.
    With another muttered curse, Quinn grabbed his tool belt and hard hat, stepped out and slammed the truck door. “Problem?”
    Rusty’s cheek bulged as he shifted his habitual wad of gum. “Yep. With the backhoe.”
    “What kind of problem?”
    “Best have a look for yourself.”
    Quinn followed him toward the equipment, nodding at the wiry, grizzled Lundgren brothers as he passed. “Morning, Trap. Wylie.”
    Trap answered with a scowl. “Too bad it’s such a pisser.”
    Quinn strapped on his belt and stared at the men loitering around the equipment, wasting valuable time. “What’s going on here?”
    “Take a look,” Rusty said again.
    Quinn leaned in to peer at the engine. Grains of sand lay scattered over the engine block. “What the hell?”
    “It seized up a few seconds after I switched on the ignition. Figure the bastard poured sand in the oil filter.” Easygoing Rusty had murder in his eyes. “He didn’t have to look too far. We’re standing in a yard full of the stuff.”
    Sand in the oil filter meant sand spreading through the engine—scoring the pistons, ruining the chambers and turning the entire engine into a worthless hunk of metal.
    An expensive hunk of metal. Quinn began running the figures in his head, estimating the costs of delays on the site, the time lost on paperwork and the added expense of a rental to replace this piece. The long-range damage to his insurance rates. Fury surged through him as he slowly straightened and scanned the rest of the equipment on the site. “Anything else wrecked?”
    “Nope.” Wylie lifted the rim of his gimme cap to scratch at his forehead with grimy fingers. “Everything else seems okay. And we aim to keep it that way.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “Means we’re going to be trailering our equipment off-site every evening. We can’t afford to lose one of our