North Country Dad (Northern Lights #4)

by Lois Richer

  Dahlia listened, fascinated by Grant’s methods. He said little, yet he skillfully drew out each boy and then led them to the discovery that giving to others could make their own lives better.

  “So,” he said, drawing the discussion to a close. “We’ve got Dahlia getting this go-kart track up and running. A bunch of people in town are working to make it happen. I’m trying to help, though some might say I’m more a hindrance,” he joked. “And you guys voted to go with this project. So besides pulling weeds, what will you contribute?”

  Silence fell around the room as the boys risked a glance at their neighbor and then down.

  “Maybe next time we talk, you’ll have ideas of how you can play a bigger part in this project,” he said. “Now I think I’d better take my girls home before Arlen’s arms go to sleep holding them.”

  Laughter ended the session. It was the perfect note to finish on. Once they’d left Lives and tucked the girls into Grant’s vehicle, Dahlia told him so.

  “I don’t know how you always hit the right note,” she murmured. “But God has certainly gifted you. Those boys got the message loud and clear without you preaching at them.”

  “That’s the best way.” Grant smiled. “I’d better go. Morning comes earlier all the time.”

  “Want to bring the girls over tomorrow night? I’m making cookies for Thanksgiving.”

  “But that’s a week away,” Grant said in surprise.

  “I’m making a lot of cookies,” she said.

  “I can certainly help eat them.” He waggled his eyebrows, and Dahlia couldn’t help but laugh.

  “In exchange for your inexpert help, I’ll throw in dinner. Six-thirty?”

  He nodded and climbed in his car.

  “Good night, girls,” Dahlia said, sticking her head in Grant’s window. The sleepy girls blew her kisses.

  As she drew away, her face came within an inch of Grant’s. Their gazes locked. Dahlia couldn’t breathe. The slightest movement forward and they’d be kissing….

  No!

  Dahlia couldn’t get sidetracked; couldn’t weaken and let her heart get involved. A relationship meant being vulnerable to hurt and betrayal, and she didn’t want to go through that again.

  “Good night, Grant,” she murmured and stepped back.

  But as she pulled away, she felt something inside her cry out.

  Why did being strong have to hurt so much?

  *

  “I can’t believe you are actually encouraging them to make a mess.” Grant felt his fingertips curl at the flour Glory had just dumped all over the counter.

  “We can always clean up messes,” Dahlia said as she scooped up the white powder. “The important thing about making cookies is to enjoy the process. Here.” She handed him a cookie cutter in the shape of a turkey, then pointed to the slab of dough she’d rolled out. “Daddy should cut the first cookie, right?”

  “Right.” The twins grinned up at him, waiting.

  “How do I do it?” Grant wished he’d made some excuse to leave the girls with Dahlia. Showing his utter ineptitude at making cookies was bad enough, but sooner or later, Dahlia would figure out he hated messes. And then she’d dig to find out why.

  He did not want to go into that. Ever.

  “Pick a spot and push the cutter into it.” She smiled at him. “Easy.”

  Easy for her to say. He plunged it into the center of the dough, then quickly yanked it back out. Half of the dough stuck to his cutter. The rest remained on the counter.

  Again his body tensed at the mess he’d created.

  “You need more flour so it doesn’t stick.” Dahlia’s hand closed over his, guided it to the flour container and carefully dipped it in. “Try again.”

  Stunned by how much he wanted her hand to remain on his, Grant froze.

  Was he beginning to care for Dahlia?

  Of course he cared about her. She was a good friend. She helped him meet people, helped with the twins. Of course he cared about her.

  But care for her?

  “What’s wrong?” Dahlia’s hazel eyes seemed to gaze right into his mind. The twins were staring, too.

  “Where I should place it? There must be a method.” He strove for a normal tone.

  “In cookie-making, you find your own method.” Dahlia’s gaze remained on him. He knew she wasn’t fooled by his offhand tone.

  He shoved the cutter into the corner of the dough.

  “Lift it slowly, Daddy.” Now Grace placed her tiny hand on his. “So it doesn’t break.”

  Grant drew the cutter slowly upward, revealing a perfect turkey.

  “You did it, Daddy!” Glory cheered as if he’d just completed a marathon.

  “It’s an excellent turkey.” Dahlia moved his work to a cookie sheet. “Now do some more. Try to get them a little closer together.”

  She nudged his hand slightly to the left. Again the spike of electricity flared.

  “You’re doing great.” She smiled at him, then turned to the twins. “Your dad’s ahead. Get cutting, you two.”

  Grace and Glory were experts compared to Grant. Wheat sheaves, scarecrows and horns of plenty multiplied beneath their small hands. There seemed no end to the dough.

  “What are all of these for?” he asked.

  “Every year I do a cookie-decorating afternoon at the nursing home,” Dahlia explained.

  “Surely a small place like Churchill doesn’t have this many residents.” Grant couldn’t imagine how a few seniors would eat so many cookies.

  “No,” she conceded, a smile tugging the corners of her lovely mouth. “But we eat some, we break some, we give some to shut-ins and we use the rest at our Thanksgiving tea.”

  “Aren’t we going to decorate any?” Glory asked, her face falling.

  “Of course. But not tonight. Tonight is for making them and you’re not finished yet.” Dahlia rolled out yet another slab of dough. This time she handed him a pumpkin-shaped cutter. “You can do a few of these now that you’re an expert,” she teased with a wink.

  This was the most family-oriented thing he and the girls had done since Eva had died. The mess still bothered Grant, but he’d begun to see Dahlia’s method. She didn’t obsess about a dusting of flour on the floor, bits of dough clinging to cupboard handles or the stack of dirty dishes in the sink because she knew she’d clean up when they were finished.

  The twins beamed with happiness. That was worth a lot more than his inner angst over the memories of his father’s obsessive-compulsive behavior.

  “Did you make Thanksgiving cookies when you were a child, Dahlia?” he asked.

  “With my grandmother.” Dahlia pulled a pan of golden-edged cookies from the oven and slid them onto a rack. “She loved Thanksgiving. She celebrated God’s generosity by making gift baskets brimming with homemade cookies. She’d deliver them along with a handmade card.”

  “To whom?”

  Dahlia didn’t immediately answer. Instead she helped the twins cut the rest of the dough, then lifted them off their stools and sent them to the bathroom to wash up. Then she answered.

  “Granny Bev said she felt that God led her to those who should get her baskets.” She lifted her head to meet his gaze. “I went with her every year to deliver them.”

  “The more I learn of your grandmother, the more amazing she sounds.” Grant wished he could offer the twins the rich heritage of a loving, extended family.

  “Granny Bev had a heart for God. Everything in her life centered on Him. I want to be just like her—strong, focused, making a difference.”

  Didn’t she know? Didn’t she realize?

  “You already are,” Grant assured her.

  “Not really. She was a woman of unbending faith. I’m not.” She turned away, but Grant put a hand on her arm, forcing himself not to apologize for the flour mark he left there.

  “Dahlia,” he murmured. “You do so much for the community, not the least of which is the go-kart project. I’ve also heard about how you always giv
e a discount to those who can’t afford to pay full price and how you spend hours on customers’ problems, even directing them elsewhere if you think they’ll get a better deal. Your grandmother would be proud.”

  “Thanks.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “But those are small things, nothing that would impress my parents.”

  “Why does that matter so much?” Grant asked then wondered if he should have when her face tightened.

  “Because they don’t see me as part of themselves, as part of the powerful, accomplished family they’re so proud of.” She stared at the floor. “I need to prove I’m not the weakest link.”

  “But you know you’re not.” Grant could see she didn’t believe it. “Dahlia—”

  “All that’s left to do now is bake these.” She smoothed a rubber blade over the counter, pushing the leftovers into a bowl. She placed the cutters and utensils, along with the mixing bowl, in the dishwasher and handed him a damp cloth. “Mind wiping the counters?”

  He sensed that she’d deliberately cut him off because she didn’t like to show her vulnerability. If there was one thing Grant could understand it was that, so he didn’t press her. He simply began scrubbing, his brain slipping back to his childhood.

  “Grant?” Dahlia lifted the cloth from his hands. “I think it’s clean now,” she said in a gentle voice.

  “Yes.” He shook off the past. “The girls are nodding off. I think we should go. Thank you for this. We’ve had a wonderful time.”

  She didn’t ask him to stay, solidifying his theory that she wanted to be alone. She helped him dress the twins in their outerwear then handed him a paper bag, insisting they take some of the cookies home. Grant suppressed his reaction to the brush of her fingers against his and shepherded the twins out the door.

  “Thank you for everything,” he said, staring into Dahlia’s lovely face.

  “Good night, Dally,” Grace and Glory called until he closed the car door on their voices.

  The twins fell silent on the drive home, as if they understood without being told that he couldn’t talk to them right now, that he needed time to come to grips with Dahlia shutting him out so thoroughly. He did, but he also needed time to quash those hurtful memories he’d replayed in her kitchen.

  When the girls were finally tucked in bed and the house was silent, Grant stood at the window staring into the dark night.

  Memories of cleaning and polishing the cracked and tired yellow countertop in the kitchen of his childhood flooded back.

  Do it again, boy. I’m not having my food prepared on this mess. Do it again with this!

  Splash. He could feel the sting of the bleach on his reddened hands.

  How could You possibly expect me to raise those two innocents? What if I’m like him?

  For a moment, the awful horror of that possibility stuck and he couldn’t break free. Then Dahlia’s face with her shining hair, pure, clear eyes and genuine smile filled his mind.

  “I could share the twins with her,” a tiny voice in his head whispered. “We could raise them together.”

  As quickly as the thought came, he dismissed it. Wasn’t it obvious after tonight that Dahlia didn’t see him that way? Anyway, how could he be the man Dahlia deserved?

  What if he hurt her? What if he only added to the pain she already carried?

  Grant could never allow that. So he’d get on with his life and keep her as a friend, a very good friend whom he cared about. But that was all.

  He was going to make her go-kart dream a reality, even though he had a hunch that neither completing the track nor winning Arlen’s affection would erase the hurt she’d buried inside.

  Grant blinked, surprised by how very much he wanted to give Dahlia everything she wanted.

  Chapter Ten

  “It’s not going to happen,” Arlen sneered. “So why are we killing ourselves to make this track useable?”

  Dahlia had just explained that before they could resurface the track, they needed to fill the cracks. Rod and Arlen were doing that as she and Grant followed with the tar topcoat.

  “Do you ever stop being a naysayer?” Rod’s face was red from the exertion on this unusually warm day. “Let’s just get on with it.”

  “Who made you the boss?” Arlen yelled.

  “Guys, come on. Let’s cut the fighting and work together so we can get this done. Okay?”

  Dahlia was relieved Grant had intervened because she was running out of ways to reach Arlen.

  “Where are the twins?” After Grant poured some of the tar on the surface, she spread it across the road. They worked well together. Like partners.

  “Laurel took Glory and Grace to the beach.” He waited until she’d finished one section before he started another. “They’re choosing pebbles for a project. Laurel said it might be the last chance before winter blows in.”

  “We’ve been lucky with the weather.” For the past three days Dahlia regretted ending their cookie-making session so abruptly. She’d done it because his presence in her home with the twins had engendered dreams she couldn’t afford. She needed to stop dreaming and focus on her goal. The track.

  Dahlia now sensed that something had changed between them, that he’d somehow withdrawn. There was nothing she could put her finger on. He was just—different toward her.

  “The twins’ birthday is Saturday,” Grant murmured when Arlen and Rod had moved out of range.

  “They’ll be six?” A bump of envy grew in Dahlia’s heart. How lucky he was to share this milestone with the precocious twins. Her first instinct was to offer to help so she could be involved in the celebration, but she wasn’t sure that was a good idea given this distance she felt yawning between them. “I’ll bet they’re excited.”

  “That’s the problem. They want to invite their entire class to a birthday party.” Panic filled his gray eyes. “I can’t handle that many kids.”

  Dahlia felt certain it wasn’t only the number of kids he was worried about. Something else ate at him.

  Stick to your decision to give him space, she reminded herself. She hoped doing so would help her quell these longings to be closer to him.

  Dahlia jerked upright. Was that why she was helping Grant—to get closer to him?

  “Would you be available to help?” His hesitation was painfully obvious.

  She wanted to say yes immediately, but she reined herself in. “With what, exactly?”

  “With whatever it is one does at a child’s sixth birthday.”

  “You’ve never had a birthday party?” she teased, trying to make him laugh.

  “No.”

  At first she thought he was joking. But his eyes remained blank.

  “My father wasn’t into parties,” Grant said, his voice giving nothing away. “And he didn’t allow me to attend them either. Eva handled the twins’ parties, so I truly have no clue how to make the day special, apart from buying birthday cakes and supervising some games.” For a moment, his eyes lit up. “I was hoping you’d tell me how your Granny Bev would celebrate.”

  Even though Dahlia wanted nothing more than to help Grant, she knew doing so would put her heart at risk.

  However, he was out here sweating to help with her project. And how could she say no to a man who understood how deeply she valued her grandmother?

  “Birthday parties aren’t that hard,” she said. “Especially for little girls. Wearing on adults, maybe. But not difficult.”

  “I’d be very grateful for any advice you can offer.” His gaze held hers. “I hate to keep asking you for help.”

  “Don’t be silly.” She repressed a flicker of guilt. “It will be fun. But I said I’d be at Kyle’s turkey shoot that night.”

  “I’m going, too. The party will be over by then.” Grant frowned. “I really need to find the twins a sitter. I don’t like to ask Lucy for even more of her time. I’m surprised she agreed to stay on as the twins’ after-school sitter after they ran away. She tried to quit but I told her that could have happened to any
one.”

  “Why not ask him?” Dalia inclined her head toward Arlen. “I think he’d be great at it.”

  “Interesting idea.” Grant emptied the last of the pail on the road. “Want to switch jobs with me?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Dahlia said, half laughing, half groaning as she rubbed her back. “I didn’t realize this stuff would be quite so stiff to spread.”

  “Just be glad it’s still warm. If the sun wasn’t heating things up, it wouldn’t spread at all.” Grant handed her the pail, then adroitly used the spreader she’d struggled to wield.

  By the time she and Grant reached Rod and Arlen, the two were sitting on upturned buckets, discussing football. Apparently their argument was over.

  “You guys did a great job,” she praised. “I’m so glad we could finish before it turns cold.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if it ever gets cold here,” Arlen scoffed. “Maybe all your talk of frigid weather is fantasy.”

  “You wish.” Dahlia laughed. “The fantasy part is believing winter won’t come. It will. This is the mildest fall I’ve known since I arrived and I won’t object if God keeps the flurries back a little while.”

  “You really think God cares about stuff like that?” Arlen said.

  “I know He cares about us.” Dahlia winced at the pain clouding his eyes. “We’re His children. Every dad wants to give his kid their heart’s desires.”

  “My heart’s desire is to not be here,” Arlen snapped.

  “Where would you rather be?”

  Grant started talking to Rod, leading him away so she and Arlen could be alone.

  “With my sisters.” He looked straight at her and for the first time there was no enmity in his gaze, just a boatload of hurt. “But that isn’t going to happen.”

  “You won’t be here forever. You’ll see them soon.” She reached out to touch his arm, but he jerked out of reach. “If you need to talk to someone, I’m available. So is Grant. Please don’t feel you’re all alone.”

  “But I am. My sisters are dead and my mother doesn’t ever want to see me again.” His eyes bored into her. “I don’t think you can fix that.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I can’t,” she whispered, aghast at the burden he carried.