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another woman and get away with it again.”
Mac looked down to find his son standing beside him, the child’s arms crossed over his chest and his feet planted to relax back on his hips as he watched Olivia walk across the main road in front of the stopped school bus. Sweet Prometheus, how could the boy possibly know his very thoughts?
Mac unfolded his arms and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Apparently
bastard
is an inappropriate term for a six-year-old to use, son. So maybe you should cease saying it until you’re older.”
“How much older?” Henry asked, also shoving his hands into his trouser pockets as he frowned up at Mac. “Can I say it when I’m ten? Or fifteen? Or do I have to wait until I’m your age?”
The boy always took everything so literally! And if Henry asked one question he asked a hundred; every day, morning until night, one right after another. The problem was, Mac didn’t have a clue how to answer him half the time. How in hell was he supposed to know how old a person should be to use certain words? As far as he was concerned, if the term fit it was permissible at any age.
“Maybe that’s a question you should ask Olivia.”
“And do I call her
Olivia
when I ask, or
madam
?”
Mac dropped his head in defeat. “You might wish to ask her that, too. And Henry, don’t mention to her daughter what happened today,” he said when he saw Olivia walking back across the road holding the hand of a girl who appeared to be a year or two older than Henry. “Olivia might not want her to know for fear of worrying her. Now go put your things behind your seat to make a place for her to sit,” he instructed, looking toward the main road as Henry ran to the truck.
The two women could have been twins but for their ages, the younger Baldwin having wavy brown hair that fell over her shoulders to frame an angelic face, an effortless smile, and an energized beauty that seemed to swirl around her like liquid sunshine—exactly like her mother.
Mac shuddered, thanking the gods he’d sired a son,knowing damn well he would have worried himself into an early grave if he’d had a daughter.
The young girl even took on Olivia’s same expression of concern when she spotted her mother’s swollen lip and puffy eyes. She stopped to ask a question once they reached the dirt road and the school bus started off again, and Mac saw Olivia’s smile widen as she made a gesture, obviously concocting some tale to explain her injury. Only it appeared the young girl wasn’t sure if she believed her, judging by her frown. She then tugged on the unfamiliar jacket her mother was wearing over her own and asked another question.
Mac watched Olivia glance guiltily toward him as she started unzipping it. But her daughter stopped her by grabbing her hand and pushing up the sleeve, exposing a bruise on Olivia’s wrist that had darkened enough for Mac to see from where he was standing.
“Sophie looks just like her mother,” Henry said, having come back from his chore to once again stand with his hands in his trouser pockets.
“Sophie?” Mac repeated, unable to remember Olivia mentioning her daughter by name. Probably because he’d been too angry that he’d been forced to release the bastard who’d brutalized her.
“Didn’t you hear Olivia tell me her daughter’s name is Sophie, and that she’s eight years old and in the second grade?” Henry glanced up at him then looked back at the women. “Even from here I can see they have the same colored eyes as each other, just like you and I do. Olivia’s eyes remind me of cinnamon, which is my favorite spice, and I bet Sophie’s are the same.” He suddenly frowned. “I don’t think I would have let the bast—that man drive away if I had caught him hurting Sophie.” He suddenly grinned menacingly. “I would have at least sent him home carrying his stones in his pocket.”
Mac broke out in a sweat. Henry wasn’t merely walking and talking like him; his son