Page 7 of Simon Says

Not a good start.

Dakota stared at the man who had served as her stepfather from her sixteenth year until her mother’s death.

Now he served as nothing in her life.

Nothing at all.

Yet…here she was, in a place she didn’t want to be, at an hour she hated, and without the kick of coffee to keep her alert.

Wearing a deliberate look of disinterest, Dakota sauntered further into the familiar living room and took a seat where her mother’s favorite chair used to be. Now, thanks to her stepfather, a very expensive leather lounger replaced it. “You’re joking, right?”

Resting back with his shoeless feet on a new coffee table and a toothpick in his perfect teeth, Barnaby Jailer smiled that same smile that had always made Dakota’s skin crawl. “Of course I’m not, honey. You owe me and you know it.”

Hoping to brazen her way out of that claim, Dakota snorted. “Right. In what universe?”

A grating sound that Barnaby tried to pawn off as a laugh made Dakota’s stomach lurch. Why couldn’t he be a coffee drinker with a fresh pot waiting in the small kitchen?

From the moment her mother had brought Barnaby home, Dakota had hated him. Her reasons were sketchy at best. He was an average-height man with an average, rangy build and a pleasant enough face.

But at sixteen, she’d been very afraid of him.

Now, at twenty-three, he merely repulsed her. But it was years too late for second-guessing her first impressions.

Eyes closing on a familiar rush of pain, Dakota struggled to gather herself. She had few weaknesses left. As a survivor, she’d overcome obstacles and conquered nearly all of her fears.

With very few exceptions, she could face anyone and anything without flinching.

But those damn past regrets that encompassed her mother’s death and her own grief always hit her like a concrete sucker punch. Time hadn’t softened them.

Nothing ever would.

The hush of clothing against couch cushions and the squeak of a floorboard announced Barnaby’s approach. Dakota didn’t have to look at him to know he smiled, that his dark eyes glittered with satisfaction.

He was right, she did owe him.

“If it wasn’t for me,” Barnaby whispered from her right side, “you wouldn’t have known your mother was dying.”

“Shut up.”

“If it wasn’t for me,” he continued, “you wouldn’t have had anywhere to live.”

“It was my home.”

“Not after you left. Not after staying gone, without a word, for so long. She’d written you off, little girl.”

Dakota smirked. “Little girl?” She slanted her gaze up at him. “I’m only a few inches shorter than you are, Barnaby.”

“And yet,” he said, his voice frighteningly gentle as he moved to the back of her chair, “you’re still so much smaller.”

With every fiber of her being, Dakota felt Barnaby standing there behind her. Her skin prickled and the hair on her nape lifted as if touched by static.

“To Joan’s mind,” Barnaby continued, “she no longer had a daughter. Had she not been so ill, she would have refused to let you enter. Yet despite her wishes, I contacted you myself. I gave you a place to live and food to eat and most importantly, I allowed you back into your mother’s life. I gave you a chance to say good-bye to her. Again.”

“For good.”

“Don’t blame me for that. As soon as I knew your mother wouldn’t pull through, I looked for you. But you weren’t the easiest girl to find.”

No, she hadn’t been. When she’d run off with her boyfriend, she’d covered her tracks. Not once had she considered that her mother might be right in her arguments. No, Dakota had fostered her hurt, telling herself that her mother’s reactions were because she loved Barnaby more than she loved her own daughter.

---