The Heart of Devin MacKade (The MacKade Brothers 3)

“You didn’t make it to Sunday dinner yesterday at the farm.”

“Did you miss me?”

“Not particularly.” But there was something in his eyes that wiped the sneer off her face. “Is something wrong, Devin?”

“No.”

“Jared told me about Joe Dolin, the work release. It’s bothering you.”

“That’s a mild term for it. I’m keeping my eye on him,” he mur

mured, and turned his face into Layla’s sweet-smelling neck to nuzzle.

“I’ll bet you are,” Savannah murmured. She brushed a hand over her daughter’s head, then let it rest on Devin’s shoulder in a gesture of affection and support that surprised both of them.

“Am I growing on you, Savannah?”

She let her hand drop, but the corners of her mouth quirked up. “Like you said, I’m stuck with you. Now give me my kid.”

Devin settled Layla in her mother’s arms, then kissed Savannah, firm and quick, on the mouth. “See you. See you, Bry,” he added as he rose.

Bryan mumbled something, hampered by a mouthful of apple-filled doughnut.

“Damn MacKades,” Savannah said under her breath. But she was smiling as she watched Devin stride away.

By noon, the town was bursting at the seams. People crowded the sidewalks and spilled over porches and front yards. Kids raced everywhere at once, and the bawling of fretful babies rose through the air like discordant music.

Several streets were barricaded to keep the parade route clear. Devin posted himself at the main intersection so that he could soothe travelers who had forgotten about parade day, or were from far enough out of town that they’d never heard of it.

He offered alternate routes, or invitations to park and join the festivities.

The two-way radio hitched to his belt belched and squawked with static or calls from deputies placed at distant points along the route.

Across the street from him, at the corner of the gas station, a clown sold colorful balloons. Half a block down, ice cream and snow cones were big sellers. They melted in the heat almost as soon as they were passed from hand to hand.

Devin looked at the wrappers, the spills, the bits of broken toys and balloons. Cleanup was going to be a bitch.

Then, in the distance, he heard the first of the marching bands approaching the square. The brassy music, the click-clack of booted feet, had his practical frame of mind shifting into the pleasures of his youth.

What the hell—there was just nothing like a parade.

“Officer! Officer!”

Resigned, Devin turned back to the barricade, where another car had pulled up. With one look, he summed up the middle-aged couple in the late-model sedan as hot, frazzled and annoyed.

“Yes, ma’am.” He leaned down to the open window and gave them his best public-servant smile. “What can I do for you?”

“We have to get through here.” The driver’s irritated tone carried the flavor of the North that went with his Pennsylvania tags.

“I told you not to get off the highway, George. You just had to take the scenic route.”

“Be quiet, Marsha. We have to get through,” he said again.

“Well, now.” Devin ran his hand over his chin. “The problem here is that we’ve got a parade going on.” To prove it, the marching band let out a blare of trumpets, a boom of drums. Devin pitched his voice over the din. “We won’t be able to open this road for another hour.”

That sparked a heated domestic argument, demands, accusations. Devin kept the easy smile on his face. “Where y’all headed?”

“D.C.”