Page 38 of Fire Dancer
Claire made her stuffed animal rabbit wave an ear back, and whatever genes I possessed that judged men as potential mate material registered a solid ten for Ingo.
Stupid genes.
“Mommy and I drove home in your car,” Claire told me.
“We did. Thanks for loaning it to us,” Abby said.
Her car had broken down — again — so she’d picked up my car and driven it home; hence Ingo giving me a ride.
“Are you staying for dinner?” Claire asked him.
He shook his head quickly. “Not tonight, kiddo. Another time, though, okay?”
A split second later, his nostrils flared, and he whipped his head around.
I did the same, as did Abby and Roscoe. A short distance away, Erin and Nash shot out onto the porch of their cabin. Everyone was still tense after our recent tangle with Harlon Greene, the warlock.
My ears registered the hum of a truck. Or, wait. A motorcycle. A truckanda motorcycle?
Erin and Nash started moving toward us, on high alert. We didn’t get casual visitors at the ranch — not with the entrance protected by a cloaking spell that worked on humans and most shifters.
Abby moved in front of Claire in a protective stance. I stepped clear of Ingo’s Jeep. He slid out quickly and stood beside me, hair bristling as if he was defending home turf.
Evolution poked at those genes of mine and added another ten points to Ingo’s scorecard. Definitely mate material.
A motorcycle appeared on a steep rise, followed by a pickup. The driver of the motorcycle waved, and the driver of the truck — a vintage Grand Wagoneer — tooted the horn merrily.
I cheered, as did Erin, Abby, and Claire. Ingo and Nash, slower to recognize the occupants, continued bristling until the vehicles reached the house.
“It’s Grandpa and Grandpa!” Claire exclaimed.
I trotted over to the Wagoneer as my father slid out and opened his arms wide.
“Dad!” I threw my arms around him.
“Sweetheart!” He wrapped his arms around me and rocked a little.
As a kid, I’d considered my dad a giant, and his hugs made me feel invincible. Nowadays, they still did, even though I was almost as tall as him.
My dad was one of Claire’s “grandpas.” Erin’s father was the other. Neither she nor Abby was related to either of them, but they treated both like their own flesh and blood.
Dad released me to tousle my hair, and I echoed the gesture. Good old dad. His youthful, Richard Gere looks were going a little gray around the edges, but he was as fit as ever. Firefighter fit, he liked to call it.
Erin’s dad, Mike, gave his motorcycle a last, loud rev, then killed the engine. His worn leather jacket creaked as he stood in time to catch Claire in a hug.
“There’s my girl!” he cheered, spinning her around in a huge circle, then setting her down gently.
I stepped aside as Claire sprinted toward my father, who repeated the procedure.
All in all, my father and Erin’s went a long way toward making up for our mother. She’d hooked up with Erin’s father just long enough to get knocked up — Mom’s term, not his — and have Erin, only to abandon them a short time later. It hadn’t taken her long to hook up with Abby’s father afterward, and mine two years later. Each time, it was pretty much the sameprocedure.Slam, bam, thank you, man — oh, and good luck raising our daughter.
Erin’s dad and mine had done a great job. Abby’s…not so much. Another reason our dads doted on little Claire the way they did.
“Let me fix your beard, Grandpa.” Claire ran her fingers over Mike’s thick handlebar mustache.
“Thank you, sweetheart.” He tapped her nose, then set her down and marveled. “You get bigger every time I see you!”
Claire stood Roscoe up on his hind legs to show off. “I’m taller than Roscoe now.”