Show Me the Way (Fight for Me #1)(33)

She scrunched that nose with the cutest grin. “People aren’t suppose to gets a party just for feelin’ better, silly.”

“No?” I feigned ignorance.

“No way! Only prize people gets for feelin’ better is having to go backs to work.”

Laughter shot from my mouth in the same second affection stabbed me in the chest, so deep I thought it might cut me in two. But that was the thing about loving Frankie Leigh.

I loved her so much it physically hurt.

I ruffled a playful hand through her hair. “Sounds to me like you’ve been spending too much time with your grammy.”

Shock had her mouth dropping open. “There’s no such thing as too much Grammy times, Daddy. Don’t you knows that?”

I laughed again, almost deciding to ignore the door, but then Frankie hopped off the bed. She wrapped both her tiny hands around one of my wrists, yanking with all her might. Of course, the only nudge she gave was the one that shot through my heart. “Come on, Daddy. There’s someone ats the door. We gots to see who it is.”

“Okay, okay,” I said, relenting, hating the way my nerves buzzed through my body when I did. The way those defenses wanted to go up.

All the while, I was wishing there was a way I could throw rescue ropes over the side.

That I could climb out of the bullshit mess I’d made of my life and jump into one where taking a girl like Rynna Dayne would be okay.

With Frankie’s hand wrapped around my index finger, I stumbled along behind her. The kid was far too chipper as she bee-lined for the door. Maybe I had overreacted.

She popped up on her toes to peer out the side window and out on to the porch. She huffed when she dropped back onto her heels. “I finks we were too late. Nobody’s there.” I set a hand on her shoulder, guiding her behind me, that kick of protectiveness always at the ready to take hold. I twisted the lock so I could open the door and peer outside.

She was right.

No one was there.

But someone had been.

To my right, someone had left a tray on the short wooden table between the two rocking chairs. I’d made them what seemed a million years ago, back when I’d been nothing but a fool. We’d just been moving into this place, and I’d been thinking maybe I’d finally outrun that shadow.

The scar that forever eclipsed the true joy of my life.

I should’ve known better.

A large lidded bowl rested on the tray, and a tented card was propped to the side of it.

Squealing, Frankie flew out from behind me. “Oh, look it, Daddy. It gots my name on it. It is a present for me.”

My gaze darted across the street. The old house sat silent and unmoving, just the branches of the big trees that fronted her yard waving their welcome.

Emotion slammed me. Unstoppable. Too much. Overwhelming.

Pushing out a sigh, I forced myself to walk all the way out.

My senses were punched again when I reached down and grabbed the handles of the tray. Only this time, it was the amazing aroma that lifted from the bowl, striking me like comfort and warmth.

Comfort and warmth that was intended for my daughter.

Thoughtful in a way I couldn’t allow the woman to be.

My sweet girl trotted along beside me while I carried the offering inside and set in on the small dining table.

“What’s it, Daddy?”

She peered up at me with that trusting grin, her fingers threaded together where she leaned against her elbows on the table to get a better look. She looked like she was already issuing up a prayer for the food she’d been given.

“Careful,” I warned, lifting the lid.

It was a chicken pot pie. The kind Corinne Dayne had been famous for.

Homemade.

Handmade.

The aroma of it so overpowering, my mouth watered.

My damned hand was shaking when I reached down and snatched the note. Frankie’s name was written across the front in the prettiest handwriting I’d ever seen.

I lifted the flap to find what was written inside.



Dear Frankie Leigh,

Remember when I told you I had some of the recipes to my grandma’s pies? I have a special secret just for you—I have the recipe for the pot pie she used to make me whenever I felt sick, too. It was always my favorite, and sometimes, I didn’t even mind getting sick, because I knew she would make it and soon everything would be better. I remember being a little girl, just like you, eating this same pie at our kitchen table right across the street. With every bite I took, I knew that my grandma had to love me more than the whole wide world.



Last night, I wished with all of me that I could have taken your sickness away. But maybe there’s a chance this pie might make you feel better the way it always did me. I sure hope so.



All my love,

Rynna





Damn her.

Damn her straight to hell for teasing me this way.

Damn her for weaseling her way in and making herself a place in a spot where she knew she would never stay.

Fuck me for wanting it.

“Read it to me! Oh, read it to me, Daddy! Wha’s it say?”

“It’s from Rynna next door,” I told her, trying to keep the thick emotion from clotting my voice. “She said her grandma used to make her this same pot pie when she wasn’t feeling well. She thought it might help you feel better, too, so she made you some.”