Taming Tess (The St. John Sibling Series) (23 page)

He flicked off the bike's engine, dismounted and stepped out from under the free-standing sign that read
The Farmhouse
.  Appearances indeed could be deceiving, he thought as he gazed into the warm glow of the windows of a home turned into a restaurant.

With his Ducati-silver and red helmet tucked under his arm, he climbed the broad front steps.  A figure moved beyond the first floor curtains, a distinctly female figure.  Mickey's widow cleaning up after a day of diners?  He hesitated ever so briefly at the top of the porch stairs, doubt still niggling at him.  Would Mickey approve of what he was about to do?

He would if it saved his son from a mother who used the boy to gain his trust fund.  And Stuart was certain she was holding his grandson as collateral against the inheritance he denied her.  Ransom had been the kindest of the words his uncle had used to describe his daughter-in-law's refusal to give the boy up to his care--his very money-advantaged care.

Sam stood there facing the leaded glass panel of the front door--facing his dilemma.  Was he really doing this for Mickey's family or for himself?  Mickey, after all, had chosen her--married her--fathered a child with her; and Mickey had never been fooled by womanly enchantments.

Then again, perhaps he could do right for both family and self.  What harm would there be in visiting Mickey's wife and kid if there was no dirt to dig up?  After all, Uncle Stu's army of detectives hadn't ferreted out anything he could use in court.  What were the odds he, the family screw-up, would find anything?

And if he did?

Mickey would want his kid protected.  The kid was all that mattered.

Still, Sam opened his silver windbreaker with the red Ducati emblem and let in the balmy breath of the summer evening.  As if anything could warm him--make him feel less reptilian about introducing himself to his cousin-in-law as a friend.

"Simon Legree had more heart," he muttered and raised his hand to knock on the door.

Yet something stilled his hand.  Mickey,
who'd raised a child with this woman for two years?  Mickey, who'd emailed him pictures of a happy family and written endlessly of his love for them?  Was the memory Mickey's way of trying to give him one more chance to do the right thing--the honorable thing? And was the right thing to leave?

Sam began to back away from the door.  That's when he heard the clatter of toenails coming fast toward him from the side porch--when the vibration of the heavy footfalls reverberated up his legs from the old floorboards.  He turned for the stairs just as the biggest dog he'd ever seen skidded around the porch corner, ears flying, jowls flapping, strings of drool trailing from a fang filled mouth.

He flung his helmet at the black and white blur of a dog coming at him, turned, and threw his body against the front door.  But the door didn't budge.  The next thing he knew, he was plastered against the leaded glass panel of the door and a pair of massive paws pinned him by the shoulders.

About the Author

An obsessive writer who’d rather write than breathe, Barbara Raffin wrote her first novel at age twelve in retaliation to the lack of female leads in the adventure stories she loved reading. But it was a love of playing with words, exploring the human psyche, and telling stories that kept her writing.

This award-winning author lives on the Michigan-Wisconsin border with her Keeshond dogs Katie and Slippers and her avid outdoorsman husband who has always supported her love affair with reading and writing. Learn more about Barbara Raffin and her books, or contact her through her web site at
www.BarbaraRaffin.com