Her Kind of Hero by Diana Palmer Page A

subject.
    He shrugged. “I did. This place came on the market three years ago and I bought it. I like the idea of having a defendable property. You’ll see what I mean when we get there. It’s like a walled city.”
    â€œI’ll bet there are lots of flowers,” she murmured hopefully.
    â€œMillions,” he confirmed. “Hibiscus and orchids and bougainvillea. You’ll love it.” He smiled gently. “You were always planting things when I lived at home.”
    â€œI didn’t think you noticed anything I did,” she replied before she thought.
    He watched her quietly. “Your mother spent most of that time ordering you around,” he recalled. “If she wanted a soft drink, or a scarf, or a sandwich, she always sent you after it. I don’t recall that she ever touched a vacuum cleaner or a frying pan the whole time she was around.”
    â€œI learned to cook in the last foster home I stayed in,” she said with a smile. “It was the best of the lot. Mrs. Toms liked me. She had five little kids and she had arthritis real bad. She wasso sweet that it was a joy to help her. She was always surprised that anyone would want to do things for her.”
    â€œMost giving people are,” he replied. “Ironically they’re usually the last ones people give to.”
    â€œThat’s true.”
    â€œWhat else did she teach you?” he asked.
    â€œHow to crochet,” she recalled. She sighed. “I can’t make sweaters and stuff, but I taught myself how to make hats. I give them to children and old people in our neighborhood. I work on them when I’m waiting for appointments with Dad. I get through a lot.”
    It was another reminder that she was taking care of his father, something he should have been doing himself—something he would be doing, if Callie’s mother hadn’t made it impossible for him to be near his parent.
    â€œYou’re still bitter about Dad,” she said, surprising him. “I can tell. You get this terrible haunted look in your eyes when I talk about him.”
    It surprised him that at her age she could read him so well, when his own men couldn’t. He wasn’t sure he liked it.
    â€œI miss him,” he confessed gruffly. “I’m sorry he won’t let me make peace.”
    She gaped at him. “Whoever told you that?”
    He hesitated. “I haven’t tried to talk to him in years. So I phoned him a few days ago, before you were kidnapped. He listened for a minute and hung up without saying a word.”
    â€œWhat day was it?”
    â€œIt was Saturday. What difference does that make?”
    â€œWhat time was it?” she repeated.
    â€œNoon.”
    She smiled gently. “I go to get groceries at noon on Saturdays, because Mrs. Ruiz, who lives next door, comes home for lunch and makes it for herself and Dad and stays with him while I’m away.” “So?”
    â€œSo, Mrs. Ruiz doesn’t speak English yet, she’s still learning. The telephone inhibits her. She’ll answer it, but if it’s not me, she’ll put it right down again.” She smiled. “That’s why I asked when you called.”
    â€œThen, Dad might talk to me, if I tried again,” he said after a minute.
    â€œMicah, he loves you,” she said softly. “You’re the only child he has. Of course he’ll talk to you. He doesn’t know what really happened with my mother, no more than I did, until you told me the truth. But he realizes now that if it hadn’t been you, it would have been some other younger man. He said that, after the divorce was final, she even told him so.”
    â€œHe didn’t try to get in touch with me.”
    â€œHe was upset for a long time after it happened. So was I. We blamed you both. But that’s in the past. He’d love to hear from you now,” she assured him. “He didn’t think