Cahill Lumber, which Lydia’s father, Grant, started thirty-five years ago, needed more trees and land. The merger, once she and Emery married, was in everyone’s best interest. Cahill, which by all accounts was a good company committed to sustainability, would take over the land management and daily operations, while Emery would continue to sit on the board of directors. The one thing he stipulated was that no strip mining occur on the land, and everyone had concurred.
It was, all in all, a perfect arrangement. Emery got a new wife, the girls a new mother, and Lydia got a ready-made family that, of course, she and Emery could add to. And because Cahill Lumber was the lifeblood of the town—the mill employed half of the population—Sheriff Harlan Thomas had requested that his old friend, some retired Army colonel, ask Jared Colter to send out a babysitter for Emery Dodd and his girls until the man said his I dos. Thomas had requested someone far more capable to watch over the family because if Emery and Lydia didn’t tie the knot, the town was in trouble. Firepower was needed to watch over the Dodd family. The whole job made sense now, and as I started my car, I understood precisely what I was there to do, and it was infinitely worse than I’d imagined.
I was there to keep Mr. Dodd in line so nothing got between Mr. Cahill and his land acquisition. But most of all, I was there to help the man with his children. Torus had been contacted by Sheriff Thomas on a query from Cahill Lumber, and I was being paid by Darrow Holdings on behalf of Emery Dodd. At least I knew who I was actually working for. I really should have read the file cover to cover before I left.
It was just like Shaw said; I was going to live with them. I was going to take his kids to school and make them dinner. I was going to be the one picking up the slack in Emery Dodd’s life.
And that quickly, the thought of having to deal with Locryn Barnes and his bullshit didn’t seem like such a bad idea at all. I could have stayed and lived through that, it was way better than babysitting, and as realization hit, I really wanted to go home.
I was sent to be the nanny.
Three
Without a doubt, the street Emery Dodd lived on was really beautiful and as was the case everywhere else in town, there were a lot of mature trees. It looked like a postcard, or what you thought of when the words picturesque small-town neighborhood were spoken. I could imagine kids walking to school and Christmas carolers and block parties.
The homes on the street were lovely, built close to one another, and were either colonial with wide porches and shutters, lots of windows, and wood accents, or ranches that were long and flat, some L-shaped and others a U, all with uninspired attached garages. I figured the Dodd house would be similar, but I was happily surprised to find it was different.
The house was nestled between giant cedar trees and ponderosa pines. It was a cottage style, which looked a lot like the Craftsman style I’d admired growing up in California. It was gray with white trim and a small second story. There was a charming white picket fence and a driveway that ran along the right side of the house, leading around back to the garage. The front yard was a lush emerald green, cut through by a cobblestone path leading to six wide front steps and up to a front porch that ran the breadth of the house. I doubted I had ever seen a more welcoming little home.
After getting out of the car, I raked my fingers through my hair a couple of times, adjusted my leather jacket, checked my pits really quickly to make sure I didn’t reek, and then yawned so loud that my jaw cracked. Once I was sure I could see straight, I locked the car and headed up toward the gate. Halfway there, I stumbled over what I assumed was a crack in the pavement.
“Just don’t lemme fall on my face,” I said to the universe, hoping somebody or something was listening. “I need to at least make a decent first impression.”
At the door, I knocked softly. It was early on a Saturday morning, after all.
I was surprised by how quickly the front door was thrown open while, at the same time, a man yelled out, “Ask who it is first!”
It was good advice, but the little girl standing in front of me, had not been listening at all, and probably thought her father—had to be him calling after her—was giving her a suggestion instead of an order.
“Hello,” I greeted the short person, smiling down at her. She was very cute with her dark auburn curls tumbling around her face, big brown eyes, and a dusting of freckles across her nose.