Kitabı oku: «A Husband's Watch»
A Husband’s Watch
Karen Templeton
MILLS & BOON
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To Pat McLinn
who talked me down from the ledge
when jumping sounded much more pleasant
than trying to finish this book!
Acknowledgments
With many more thanks to Kasey Michaels,
for her input on my hero’s injuries;
and to Loren Berger, who by three already
knew more about cars than his mother ever will.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Coming Next Month
Chapter 1
At the moment, the only thing keeping Darryl Andrews from kicking the crap out of something was the fact that his foot was just about the only part of his body that didn’t already hurt.
So instead he hung back close to the road, where there was nothing to kick except a few dried-up weeds, or a stray soda can, hoping maybe a little distance would make the scene easier to absorb. To accept. Slung low in a sky his oldest girl, Heather, called “forever” blue, the morning sun barely warmed his right temple through the thick wad of gauze, although the badass November wind drilled right on inside the old baseball jacket Faith’d dug out of the church’s thrift shop donation box. So he wouldn’t have to cut up the sleeve on one of his own coats, she’d said in that matter-of-fact way of hers, as if attending to that one little detail was the key to solving all the rest of it.
He kicked at one of the soda cans anyway, hurling it out onto the paved road to clatter mournfully for several feet before getting hooked up again in a small pile of trash across the way.
Darryl would’ve sucked in a breath, but his bruised ribs had other ideas. With his good hand, he scrubbed his eyes, only half kidding himself they were stinging because of all the wood smoke in the air. Oh, sure, he’d gotten choked up at his kids’ births. And there’d been Griff Malone’s ten-seconds-left-on-the-clock, state-title clinching touchdown his senior year, but, hell, everybody’d been blubbering at that one. Nothing wrong with a little display of emotion now and again, long as it was the right emotion, let loose at the appropriate time.
This wasn’t it.
He swallowed, blinking until he could clearly see his father and the claims agent pick through the tangle of shingles, twisted metal siding and two-by-fours where not twenty-four hours before his auto shop and filling station had stood. Where he had as well, come to think of it.
Yep. The general consensus was that he was damn lucky to be alive.
He’d never even heard the tornado siren go off, not between his radio blaring and the earplugs he wore to muffle the sound of the air compressor. But then, who the hell expected a twister the day before Thanksgiving? Let alone five, if you counted the two that touched down between here and Claremore. Most of ’em had been puny little things, but even a puny tornado had few qualms about chewing up whatever got in its way. At least the one that’d visited this part of Haven had seen fit to bypass the gas tanks. If those lines had ruptured, especially so close to the downed power lines…
No doubt about it, coming that close to biting the big one definitely makes a man reassess his priorities. Still and all, Darryl’s means of supporting his wife and five kids had been reduced to a pile of toothpicks. Maybe that business hadn’t made him, or his daddy before him, rich, but Darryl’d been doing okay. Sure, they could have used a bigger house, even if Faith did insist there was a certain comfort in knowing she could go to the bathroom and still hear what every single kid was doing. But then, it wasn’t in Faith’s nature to complain, not about the house, or the ten-year-old Suburban Darryl kept jump-starting back to life, or even that she was still wearing the same dresses to church she had when they first got married. Those she could still get into, at any rate.
He looked over at her now, standing where the second bay used to be, eleven-month-old Nicky balanced on her round hip. Faith’s blond curls, longer than they’d been in a while, danced around her face in the breeze; she was already dressed to go to her parents for Thanksgiving dinner later—no sense upsetting the kids any more than necessary, they’d both agreed—in her “good” jeans and a soft-looking sweater. And that puffy orange jacket she’d bought the first winter after they were married, the one that made her look like a pumpkin, although Darryl had the good sense to keep that particular opinion to himself.
It wasn’t always easy to figure out what was going on inside Faith’s head—although most every male he knew swore it was better that way—but the creases between her sandy brows, the flat set to her mouth, didn’t leave much room for interpretation. Yeah, the insurance would cover rebuilding, but that would take months. Months in which he wouldn’t be able to work, or even help with the reconstruction, not with an arm broken in three places.
As if she could hear his thoughts, Faith glanced over. It’d been real late by the time they got back from the hospital last night; she’d slept on the pullout couch in the living room, insisting he’d be more comfortable in their double bed without her crowding him, especially since he had to keep his cast elevated on pillows. Only, except for the times Faith had been in the hospital after the first three were born, they’d never spent a night apart. More comfortable? Hell, he might as well have been sleeping on a bed of nails for all the rest he got.
He started when his father’s hand landed on his shoulder. “How’re you feelin’?” the older man said, in a voice not unlike an idling lawnmower.
“You really want the truth?”
“Think of the alternative.”
“Trust me, I have been.”
L.B.—short for “Little” Bud, Darryl’s granddaddy having been “Big” Bud—gently squeezed his shoulder, then folded his arms across a barrel chest. At six foot two, there hadn’t been anything “little” about L.B. for years, although none of his three sons had inherited whatever genes had determined their father’s height, Darryl being the tallest of the three at five foot ten.
“It’s mostly structural damage,” L.B. said. “Looks like a lot of the major equipment came through okay, the office just needs a new roof. And it’s all covered. That was a stroke of genius, takin’ pictures of everything, keepin’ ’em in a binder with all the invoices.”
Darryl managed a small smile. “I’ve got Faith to thank for that.” As well as her insisting that the policy covered replacement value, not purchase price.
“Yeah, she’s a smart gal, all right.” L.B.’s gaze followed Darryl’s, watching Faith talking to the adjuster. She hiked Nicky higher up on her hip, like he was getting heavy for her. Darryl sensed more than saw his father purse his lips, and he braced himself. Sure enough, L.B. said, “You thought about what you’re gonna say if her folks offer to help? Financially, I mean?”
“I doubt they’ve got any more than we do, L.B.—”
“But if they do. You know how I’ve always felt about goin’ outside the family. You need help, you come to us, you hear me?”
Never mind that Darryl had been part of Faith’s family for more than twelve years now. But then, Darryl understood this wasn’t about money near as much as it was about pride—the pride of a man who’d determined early on that nobody would ever call his sons trailer trash. A man who’d gone white as a ghost when Darryl’d told him he’d gotten the preacher’s daughter pregnant. Hell, if Darryl hadn’t stepped up to the plate to marry Faith on his own, it would have more likely been his father, not Faith’s, standing at the altar with a shotgun in tow.
Darryl met his father’s coffee-brown gaze, as penetrating as ever underneath heavy, dark brows, even if these days the occasional white hair jutted out like a stray broom bristle. “You know I’ve never taken a dime from Faith’s parents, and I have no intention of starting now,” he said, and some of the muscles in his father’s face loosened a bit. But assuaging his father wasn’t going to solve the problem, was it? God knew, Darryl wasn’t any more keen than his father on accepting help from the Meyerhausers. But it hadn’t only been Faith’s absence from their bed, or even his injuries, that had kept him awake most of the night, but rather the incessant, nauseating tattoo of Whatnowwhatnowwhatnow…?
Faith was really struggling with the baby by now—why she’d brought him when she’d left the other four with her folks, Darryl had no idea—so he excused himself and slowly headed in her direction. Every muscle screamed in protest; whatever hadn’t been gouged or broken had been banged up pretty good. Par for the course, he supposed, when an entire roof falls in on top of you.
Nicky saw him and broke into a big dimpled grin, clapping his chubby hands. White-blond curls poked out from the edge of his red sweatshirt hood, his eyes a deeper brown, even, than Darryl’s. “Da!” he squealed, his breath fogging around his reddened cheeks as he lunged forward, arms spread.
“No, no, Butterball,” Faith said, straining to keep the kid from falling on his noggin. “Daddy can’t hold you right now—”
“Sure I can.” Darryl stretched out his good arm, even though his ribs clearly wondered what the hell he was doing. “Come here, Mr. Chunks.”
But Faith pivoted, settling the baby more securely up on her hip. “Darryl, for heaven’s sake…you can’t possibly hang on to a wiggly baby right now!”
“I’m perfectly capable of holding my own kid, Faith. Like everybody keeps reminding me, I’m not dead yet!”
Nicky’s face crumpled up, his lower lip quivering. Wordlessly, Faith shoved the baby into Darryl’s outstretched arm, then walked back to the Suburban and grabbed hold of the door handle, her head bent as if she was trying to pull herself together. Or maybe she was praying. Not all preachers’ kids ended up being particularly religious, he knew that, but this was one case where the apple had definitely not fallen far from the tree. More often than not, Darryl found that comforting. Other times he found it a big pain in the butt. Especially when he got the definite feeling he was the one being prayed over.
At his elbow, the claims adjuster cleared his throat. His son clutched to his side, Darryl turned to the bland-faced little man, meeting a watery blue gaze behind slightly crooked rectangular glasses.
“Looks like I’ve got everything I need for now, so I’ll just be on my way. The wife’ll have five fits if I don’t get home soon.”
“Oh. Yeah, sure,” Darryl said, trying not to flinch every time Nicky grabbed for the bandage covering the ten stitches marching over his temple. His broken arm throbbed—he needed to get it elevated, put ice on it like they’d told him to do. “We really appreciate you coming out on a holiday like this.”
“No problem, I was in the area, anyway. Figured I may as well get a jump start on things. ’Specially as here and Ivy Gardner’s were the only two places to sustain any significant damage. Can’t say the same for Claremore, unfortunately—the outskirts got hit pretty bad. No loss of life, though, praise the Lord. Craziest darn thing, tornadoes this time of year—”
“I don’t mean to pressure you, but any idea how long payout might take? I’m pretty anxious to get things set to rights again.”
Behind the man’s glasses, apology flashed. “Yes, yes, I’m sure you are, I’m sure you are. Might take a touch longer than usual, with the holidays and all, and they’ll probably want to send somebody else out for a second look-see….” The man turned to set his briefcase on the hood of his runty little sedan, dropping his clipboard inside. “I’ll be in touch shortly, but if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to give me a call. Our aim is to make the process as painless as possible.”
It did not escape Darryl’s attention that the man never directly answered his question, but he probably had no idea when they’d fork over the money. So Darryl thanked him for his help, then watched him drive off to have his Thanksgiving dinner, during which Darryl doubted whether he, or his annihilated livelihood, would be given a second thought.
“I best be gettin’ on, too,” L.B. said behind him. “Unless you still need me to stick around…?”
Darryl shifted to face his father, who tickled Nicky’s tummy. The baby gave one of his gurgly laughs, while Darryl thought his arm was about to fall off. Damn, this was one heavy little dude. How five-foot-three Faith lugged him around every day was beyond him. “No, you go ahead. I’m sure Mama’s an inch away from crazy with SueEllen’s folks joining you this year.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” L.B. said, referring to Darryl’s youngest brother’s in-laws, who hadn’t accepted their daughter’s pregnancy at eighteen with nearly as much grace as Faith’s had. Darryl glanced over at his own wife, who seemed to have given up praying for silently fuming. “Every year,” L.B. added, “Renee threatens to skip Thanksgiving, but you and I both know she’d go nuts if she didn’t have something to fret over…”
L.B.’s eyes followed Darryl’s. “Go on, son,” he said quietly. “I imagine she needs some reassurin’ right about now.” He patted Darryl’s back, then set off toward his truck, parked a few feet away. “And give your mother a call later,” he called out as he climbed into the driver’s seat, “let her know you’re okay. You know how she worries.”
“You know something, Mr. Chunks?” Darryl said to the baby as he made his way back to the car. “Being indispensable isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
Faith reached for Nicky, who happily lunged back into his mama’s arms. “You might be able to haul him around for a few minutes,” she said with a grunt, “but you sure as heck aren’t going to be able to get him in the car seat.”
“Hell, I can barely manage it when I’ve got both arms in working order,” Darryl said, surreptitiously working the kinks out of his shoulder while nostalgically gazing at his wife’s bottom as she strapped the kid in. He was crazy about his kids, but their presence definitely wreaked havoc on the concept of spur of the moment.
Faith backed out of the car, her curls all messed up; ribs or no ribs, Darryl automatically lifted a hand to smooth her hair away from her face. But he knew damn well there was nothing he could do, not really, to ease the worry from those wide, blue eyes, the same “forever” blue as the sky. Still, habit prompted, “It’s gonna be okay, baby. You know I’d never let you or the kids down.”
The corners of her mouth curved up, sort of, before she nodded. Then she took the car keys out of his hand. “I’m drivin’.”
“I got us over here—”
“Against my better judgment. Last thing I need is for you to pass out while you’re behind the wheel, get us all killed…” Her mouth clamped shut. “Get in,” she said, yanking open her door. “The kids’ll be wonderin’ what happened to us. And Mama is probably waiting on me to mash the potatoes.”
He grabbed her hand. “Honey, I know things have been tense lately—”
Her eyes shot to his, shiny with unshed tears. “Not today, Darryl. Tomorrow, we can start figurin’ out how to put the pieces back together. But today all I want is to go to my parents’ house and eat turkey and pumpkin pie and act like everything’s normal. Today I’m just gonna be grateful my babies aren’t fatherless. Okay? Can you give me my one day?”
You know, it was kinda hard reassuring a woman who clearly didn’t want to be reassured. Even harder when he had no idea what she did want.
And he never really had, not once in twelve years of marriage.
“Yeah, I can do that,” he said, then tramped around the car to get in the passenger side, every step making his head feel like it was about to explode.
“I don’t suppose there’s much point in asking if you’re comfortable?”
A towel-wrapped ice pack perched on the elevated cast, Darryl grimaced at his father-in-law from the plaid sofa in Faith’s parents’ den. Over in his playpen, a bouncing Nicky gnawed on the thickly padded edge, occasionally squealing at the overfed, overfurred cat cautiously regarding the far too noisy, temporarily caged human from where she lay sprawled across most of the coffee table.
“Actually, between the turkey and these pills I’m taking, I’m not feeling much of anything at the moment.”
With a soft laugh, Chuck Meyerhauser lowered himself into his navy-blue La-Z-Boy, the football game on TV flickering in his glasses. He must’ve gone outside for a minute—a leaf or two clung to his striped sweater, while several strands of graying red hair floated over his freckled, balding head as if they couldn’t decide where to light. “Way my joints’ve been acting up lately, I wouldn’t mind some of those pills myself.”
“Oh, yeah, this is good stuff.”
Chuck smiled, then focused on the game, as usual leaving a whole mess of unspoken thoughts shimmering between them. Faith’s daddy was one of those rare preachers who spent more time living what he believed than yakking a person’s ear off about it. Not once had either he or Didi made an issue of Darryl’s getting their only daughter—their only child, for that matter—pregnant right out of high school. That didn’t mean, however, that the situation hadn’t thrown them for a loop. Probably more, in some ways, than it had Darryl, even though marriage and fatherhood at eighteen hadn’t exactly been something he’d figured on. In any case, he’d been well aware of Faith’s folks’ concern about what might happen down the road, that the marriage might not make it.
A concern that still lingered like an odor you couldn’t completely get rid of, no matter how hard you tried. Which was why, from the moment Faith eagerly accepted Darryl’s weak-kneed proposal, he’d made a silent vow—to himself, to her, to her parents—that he’d never give them the slightest reason to think their daughter had married a loser.
A commercial came on; Chuck punched the mute button. “I suppose the town got off easy, considering,” he said. “Not that that’s any consolation to you, I don’t suppose.”
“Oh, believe me, I’m grateful nobody else got hurt.” Darryl took a swig from his plastic glass of sparkling cider. He hated the stuff, frankly, but mixing beer with painkillers probably wasn’t a real smart idea. “Never did buy into the whole misery-loves-company thing.”
Nicky shrieked at the cat, who took that as her cue to get the hell out of Dodge. Chuck fondly regarded his youngest grandson for a moment, then said, “Faith says the insurance will probably cover most of the rebuilding, but I was wondering…you guys have supplemental insurance? To cover your loss of income while you’re out of commission?”
Darryl nearly laughed out loud. They’d been doing well to make the insurance payments on the property as it was—Oklahoma had one of the highest rates in the nation. Not to mention health insurance premiums, which they could only afford with a huge co-pay. Still, having to say no hurt like all get-out.
“Listen,” Chuck said, the sympathy in his voice nearly making Darryl cringe, “we’ve got a little put by, if you guys need any help….”
“No, we’ll be okay,” Darryl said automatically. “Need to have the pumps inspected, but it doesn’t appear they were damaged, so I’ll still have income from gas sales. And once the cast is off, I’ll be back at work in no time. The wrecker wasn’t touched, did Faith tell you?”
“Yes, she did. But three or four months can seem like forever when there’s not enough money coming in. Believe me, I know. Let us help, son—”
“I’ll admit, this is a setback I hadn’t counted on,” Darryl said through the painkiller fog, “but it won’t keep me down for long. You’ll see.”
The pastor’s gray eyes all but looked straight through him. “There’s not a soul alive who’d think ill of you for accepting a little help to get you through this. And if you really have Faith’s best interests at heart,” he said over Darryl’s next objection, “you won’t let that pride of yours cloud your reason. Do I make myself clear?”
Heat crawling up his neck, Darryl focused on Nicky, who held out his arms, squealed, then promptly toppled onto his diapered butt in the playpen. “If we do have to borrow from you,” he said at last, “I’ll pay you back every penny, I swear.”
“I know you will. But there’s no hurry. Oh, for crying out loud, wipe that look off your face—sticking together is what families do.” Chuck grabbed a tissue out of a nearby box and leaned forward to wipe drool off Nicky’s chin, the recliner squawking when he settled back into it. “You know, it’s easy to see where you get your dedication to your family. Your daddy was always talkin’ up you boys, when you were little—‘Guess what that Danny did today?’ he’d say, or ‘Hope you don’t mind me braggin’ on my oldest.’ And the way L.B. dotes on your mother…I think he’d move heaven and earth for her, if she asked him to.”
“Yeah, that’s L.B.” Darryl shifted, trying to get comfortable. No such luck. “From the time I was little, I remember him saying a man’s most important duty is to make sure he never gives his wife a reason to regret marrying him.”
“A code more men would do well to live by, I’m sure.”
“Yes, sir.”
Except, over the past dozen years, Darryl had come to realize good intentions weren’t always enough to put theory into practice. Because way too often these days he’d catch this look in Faith’s eyes as if she couldn’t quite figure out how she’d gotten there. She never nagged, never complained, but still, it was enough to make a man wonder if his best was even remotely good enough.
Faith came into the den just then to announce that dessert was ready and did Darryl want her to bring his to him so he didn’t have to get up? Before he could answer, though, their eldest son pushed around his mother and streaked across the room, fully intent on launching his solid six-year-old self right at Darryl’s chest.
“Jake, no!” she yelled, as her father grabbed the kid around the waist before he made contact.
“I just wanted to hug Daddy!”
“I know, sugar. But Daddy’s kinda banged up right now. The last thing he needs is you using him for a trampoline….”
“Come here, Jakester,” Darryl said, carefully lifting his arm. “I need a hug, too.” He lowered his head as best he could to peer up underneath the boy’s shaggy bangs. “Only, you need to be real gentle. I’m basically one big bruise.”
Somber-faced, the boy walked into Darryl’s one-armed embrace, gingerly wrapping his arms around his neck. Even so, it still hurt, a little. Okay, it hurt a lot—Darryl ached in places he never knew he had.
But what really hurt was the odd, unreadable look on Faith’s face.
Faith slapped Cool Whip on top of the piece of Mrs. Smith’s pumpkin pie so hard it splattered clear across her mother’s countertop. Thank goodness whichever kids weren’t in the den with Darryl and her father were outside playing tag. Yeah, she’d wanted her day, and she’d gotten it, but now that it was mostly over she was plumb worn out from leaning against the door to her thoughts in a lame attempt to keep the big, bad truth from shoving its way inside.
Her mother glanced over from where she was trying to lift a piece of apple pie out of the plate without leaving half its insides behind. “Well, well…look who just got back from the Land of Hunky-dory,” Didi Meyerhauser said mildly, ripping a paper towel off the rack and handing it to Faith. “I wondered how long it was gonna take for this all to hit.”
Faith snorted, wiping up her mess with more energy than was required. A frisky Dolly Parton oldie came on the radio, one Faith herself used to sing, once upon a time; she turned up the volume, thinking maybe the lively tune would bolster her sagging spirits. The silverware drawer jangled when she yanked it open to grab a handful of dessert forks, letting them clatter onto the counter. She grabbed one and attacked the piece of pie she’d just cut.
“Oh, believe me,” she said, guillotining the bottom third of the pie and shoving it into her mouth, “it hit the second I got the call from Pete tellin’ me the paramedics had just pulled Darryl out from what was left of the garage.”
Just the memory of hearing the sheriff’s, “Faith, honey, there’s been an accident….” was enough to send her heart right back up into her throat. Chewing, she finished wiping up her mess, then wadded up the dirty towel and tossed it into the garbage can under the sink, banging shut the cabinet door. It was definitely a day for taking out one’s frustrations on inanimate objects. “I don’t think I breathed normally until after we got back from the hospital.”
Her mother tilted her head to regard her through the top part of her glasses. “So is this called you bein’ in denial?”
“No, it’s called me trying to keep it together for the kids’ sake.”
“Like I said.”
Faith shoveled in another forkful of pie, wishing she could soak up at least some of the patience in those soft blue eyes, that she could lose herself in them the way she used to. “If anybody’s having a dicey relationship with reality right now, it’s that man I married. I swear, if he says ‘everything’s gonna be okay’ one more time, I’m gonna lose it for sure.”
Returning her focus to the apple pie, her mother chuckled, her silver-blond waves barely moving when she shook her head. “That’s just who Darryl is, honey. Has been for as long as I can remember. And once those painkillers wear off, I imagine he’s going to feel like a bug on its back. Which means he’s gonna do a lot of kicking until he figures out how to right himself again.” She opened the freezer door to get the vanilla ice cream. “Count your blessings, honey. He could’ve…”
“Died,” Faith finished softly, pinging her fork on her plate. “Believe me, I’ve hardly thought of anything else for the past twenty-four hours.”
The ice cream abandoned, her mother wrapped one arm around Faith’s shoulders, enveloping her in a Wind Song scent. “I’m not scolding you, baby. But it’s real easy sometimes to let the bad stuff blind us to the good, you know? Now what do you suppose happened to all those napkins I put out this morning?”
Her mother hustled off to the pantry, leaving Faith to continue stuffing her face as she glared out the window, thinking about those words she’d happily lived by her entire life. Except more and more she found herself wondering if that seeing-the-good-in-everything business wasn’t sometimes just an excuse to avoid facing the parts that weren’t so good. Like somehow, if you ignored them, they’d either fix themselves or self-destruct.
On the surface, she and Darryl had beaten the odds. They were still together after twelve years; he was devoted to the kids and the marriage; nobody was a harder worker than he was. But…
But.
There it was, that stinking three-letter word that had taken to making her feel lately like her skin was too tight. Then again, her skin feeling too tight might have something to do with the fact that for the past twenty-four hours she’d been eating everything that wasn’t nailed down.
She ditched the fork: much more efficient to eat right out of her hand.
Granted, maybe her motives for wanting to marry Darryl weren’t as solid as they should have been. She’d been barely out of high school, for pity’s sake. But blind trust in her own determination to make things work had fueled her initial enthusiasm, kept things chugging along nicely for at least the first few years. Now, though, it was getting harder and harder to deny they’d been drifting apart almost from the beginning, slowly but inexorably, like the plates in the earth. Not so’s anyone could tell, she didn’t imagine—they rarely argued, they still had sex probably about as regularly as any couple with five young children, they treated each other with as much consideration as they always had. Yet, she wondered…If she hadn’t’ve gotten pregnant, would they even still be together?
Her father stuck his head in the doorway the same moment her mother returned from the pantry with a bag of paper napkins. “Just wondering what the dessert holdup is,” he said pleasantly.
“Wouldn’t think you’d have room for pie,” Didi said, “what with all that turkey and mashed potatoes you put away.”
Grinning, her father sidled up to Didi and slipped his arms around her waist, making her giggle like a girl. “But there’s always room for apple pie…”
Faith turned away, nearly overcome with annoyance that her life had turned into some sad-sack country song. She fixed Darryl a plate of pie—a slice each of apple and pumpkin, like always; the man was as predictable as the moon—then cut herself another piece of pumpkin, just to be sociable. But when she started out of the kitchen, she saw he’d hobbled back to the dining table instead of staying in the den. He glanced up at her, his smile stopping short of those melted-chocolate eyes that could still rattle her to her toes, nodding and saying “Thank you” when she set his plate in front of him. She grabbed Sierra as the boisterous three-year-old flew past, plopping her back into her booster seat at right angles to her daddy; Faith’s heart ached at Darryl’s barely suppressed wince when the child let out a shriek of protest.
