Dare to Love Again (The Heart of San Francisco Book #2): A Novel

by Julie Lessman

  “Nick? Uncle Logan? Is . . . everything all right?”

  He looked up to see Allison standing not ten feet away, face etched with concern. “Fine, sweetheart,” he said easily. “I think Nick and I have arrived at an understanding.”

  The muscles in her face relaxed along with those in his stomach. “Oh, good,” she whispered. “It’s important to me that you both get along.”

  “Of course it is, darling.” Logan gave her a peck on the cheek. “And it’s important to both of us that you’re happy, right, Nick?” When Nick didn’t respond, Logan gave Allison’s shoulder a light squeeze. “We’re going up for cake and presents in my suite, so don’t be long.”

  “Oh.” Allison spun to face him, a hint of worry in her tone. “Mother asked if it would be all right to take the party to our house instead. Apparently Maddie was upset when she made her stay home tonight sick, and now Mother’s feeling guilty about leaving her. She thought it might be better for her to go home earlier than planned.”

  Logan expelled a heavy sigh. “I thought she seemed out of sorts tonight. I’ll take her home right now, and the rest of you can follow later.”

  “No, Uncle Logan, she said she wanted you to stay and she’d call Hadley.”

  “Nonsense. I’ll take her home and the rest of you can come when you’re ready. Just ask Peter the maitre d’ to retrieve the cake I ordered from the kitchen and bring it along, all right? And don’t forget your presents in a bag in the hall closet of my apartment.” He handed her a key from his pocket with a wink. “But don’t you dare peek in the bag, understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” Allison grinned and perched on tiptoe to give him a kiss on the cheek, her eyes misty with gratitude. “Thank you for always being there to take care of us, Uncle Logan.”

  A knot jerked in his throat as he pulled her into a tight hug. “Heaven knows I try, sweetheart.” His eyes connected with Barone’s over Allison’s shoulders with deadly intent. “Whatever it takes . . .”

  23

  I can’t thank you enough for taking me home, Logan—I feel like such a ninny.” Caitlyn picked at her nails in the front seat of Logan’s black Mercedes Phaeton, gaze fixed on the lit tower of the Ferry Building at the far end of Market. She thought of poor, sweet Maddie, cheeks burnished with fever and eyes rimmed with tears over missing the party, and guilt slashed anew. “I should have stayed home like originally planned.”

  “And miss one daughter’s birthday party while another sleeps the night away?” Logan grunted. “The little sweetheart is probably out cold, Cait, and you’re worrying for nothing.”

  “I hope so . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “I know so, Mrs. McClare, so relax, all right? I told Allison to bring the cake and presents along when they’re ready to head home.” He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze, an action that endeared Logan McClare to her all the more. An endearment that seemed to be growing of late, she suddenly realized, a situation that didn’t alarm quite like before.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, giving his hand a gentle press back. She studied his handsome profile, amazed at how much stronger she felt with him by her side. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me—I’ve been edgy all evening.”

  “Oh, really? Haven’t noticed,” he said with a sideways grin. “Come on, Cait—a bully?”

  She nibbled the edge of her smile, her look sheepish at best. “Well, you do tend that way at times. Just look how you treated poor Andrew last week when he stopped by with his report.”

  Logan scowled, a natural reflex where Andrew Turner was concerned. Cait stifled the urge to smile. There certainly was no love lost between Logan and his former best friend from college days, especially now that Andrew dropped by more often for Vigilance Committee business. As a dedicated board member, it appeared he took the role as seriously as he did that of district attorney, his passion to clean up the Coast seemingly as strong as hers. Cait bit the edge of her lip. A “passion” that appeared to arouse jealousy in Logan. Which was not all that unfounded, she realized, given Andrew’s increasing flirtations and repeated requests to take her out to dinner. She expelled a quiet sigh. But she had no more interest in becoming romantically involved with Andrew Turner than she did with Logan McClare. Her gaze flicked to the hard line of Logan’s jaw, now clamped as always when Andrew’s name came up. Her committee relationship with Andrew was definitely becoming more difficult given the intimate friendship she was developing with the man beside her, upon whom she seemed to depend more and more.

  He shot her a look that could have singed the satin cloak on her shoulders . . . or Andrew Turner’s eyebrows had the poor man been present. “Blast it, Cait, why do you give that rogue license to come by whenever he wants? I guarantee board business is not all he has on his mind.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Logan,” she said with soft chuckle. “Andrew Turner is as devoted to the cause of cleaning up the Coast as you and I, and as far as your insinuation that Mr. Turner is a rogue, I’ve seen no evidence thus far.” She tilted her head, hoping to disarm him with a tease. “But even if I had, if that were cause to ban the man from my house, I’m afraid you might find the locks changed as well, Mr. McClare.”

  His gaze narrowed. “Hardly—I’ve abdicated the title to him in case you haven’t been paying attention.”

  Her smile turned tender. “As a matter of fact I have, and I admit, it’s quite becoming.”

  “Good,” he said with a mock frown. “I worried it may have escaped your notice.”

  “Nothing escapes my notice where you are concerned, sir, which brings us back to my original comment. You have to admit—you tend to bully when family is involved.”

  His grin took a slant. “Last time I studied the law, it wasn’t a crime to protect your family, Mrs. McClare. If it were, you and I might well be sharing a cell.”

  Heat dusted her cheeks at the very thought of her and Logan sharing anything that confined them to close quarters. She quickly averted her gaze to Lotta’s Fountain as they passed by, the cast-iron pillar drinking fountain donated by entertainer Lotta Crabtree causing her to lick her parched lips. “And you are rather hard on poor Nick.”

  The smile on his face slid into a scowl. “ ‘Poor Nick’ is right. The man’s almost as penniless as the bums he investigates on the Coast, which is too reminiscent of Luepke to suit, not to mention that other freeloader Allison almost married.”

  Caitlyn sighed, Logan’s concern for her daughter at odds with her growing affection for Nick. “Honestly, I’ve gotten to know Nick fairly well these last few months, and I have to say I like the man. But more importantly, Allison likes him as well—a lot.”

  “We all liked Roger Luepke too, if you recall, and the man was as phony as the warrants Henry Meiggs stole to finance the wharf.”

  “I suppose . . .” Her gaze trailed out her window as Logan shifted lanes to pass a clattering milk wagon before he signaled a right turn on Powell. “But Miss Penny thinks the sun sets and rises on Nick, and I certainly trust her judgment on people.”

  Logan shot her a hard glance before he turned onto her street. “Need I remind you Luepke had no bigger advocate than Monsignor Milton? There are some men who could fool the Pope himself, and I have a gut feeling Barone may be one.”

  Limbs paralyzed in her seat, Cait wasn’t listening as her eyes locked on a patrol wagon outside her home halfway up Nob Hill. Her hand flew to her mouth to squelch a tiny cry. “Logan—hurry—something’s wrong!”

  Gaze flicking up to her house, Logan wasted no time, nearly colliding with a cable car before rounding Caitlyn’s corner on two wheels. He ground to a stop behind the police wagon and jumped out, rushing to assist Cait who almost leapt into his arms.

  “Oh, Logan, if anything happened . . .” Her voice trembled as much as her legs as she bolted up the brick steps to the marble portico, hands shaking on the brass knob when she hurled the door wide. “Rosie? Hadley?” She rushed into the foyer, panic in her cry.

&n
bsp; “Oh, Miss Cait!” Rosie jumped up from the sofa with a limp handkerchief in hand, nearly toppling Caitlyn with a fierce embrace. The warmth of Logan’s hand steadied Caitlyn from behind as Rosie sobbed in her arms. “Maddie’s gone, and we can’t find her anywhere.”

  All blood drained from Caitlyn’s face as she teetered, close to fainting dead away if Logan hadn’t braced her from behind. She tried to speak, but fear stole the sound from her throat.

  “What do you mean ‘gone’?” Logan snapped.

  Rosie looked up, face blotchy from tears, unconcerned for once with her enmity toward Logan. “Sh-she was upset when Miss C-Cait left for the party and tried to f-follow her out the door. I had to run after the little m-mite and rock her t-till she fell asleep, putting her down around six. But when I checked on her not an hour ago, she w-wasn’t in her bed . . .”

  “Have you searched the house—under her bed, in her closet?” Logan gripped Rosie’s arms, voice steady but manner tense.

  Hadley stepped forward, his dignified demeanor intact except for an abundance of worry lines etched in his brow. “Yes, sir, both Mrs. O’Brien and I scoured the house top to bottom to no avail, so we called the police. Two officers are searching upstairs this very moment.”

  Caitlyn could barely breathe, visions of Maddie’s tear-swollen face choking her air. She grappled for Logan’s hand, unable to stop her nails from gouging his palm. “Oh, Logan,” she rasped, “what are we going to do?”

  He surrounded her with strong arms, steadying her body with a vise hold and rock-steady tone. “We’re going to remain calm and rational, Cait, and think this through, step by step. She’s a little girl of six, for heaven’s sake—she can’t have gone far. We’ll find her.” Her ragged breathing slowed as he kneaded her back, the confidence in his voice vibrating in her ear as her head lay against his chest. “Hadley, I assume you searched every room including the attic and cellar, calling Maddie loudly as you did so?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I take it all doors were locked except for the front entrance, so did you search outside, out back, at the neighbors?”

  “Everywhere, sir,” Hadley said, his response bearing the faintest hint of a waver.

  “And none of the neighbors saw her, heard anything at all?”

  “No, sir, not one, but I only queried a house or two. And Mrs. O’Brien and I were in the kitchen finishing chores, so neither of us recall hearing anything amiss.”

  Logan’s voice echoed in the foyer, taut with authority. “Rosie, I want you to brew a large pot of chamomile tea with mint for Miss Cait, all right? Hadley, I need you to go house-to-house on both California and Powell to ask if anyone has seen Maddie. See if they saw anything suspicious in the area, then give them Cait’s number to call should any information come to light.”

  “Yes, sir,” Rosie and Hadley said in unison, darting off to their respective duties.

  “Oh, Logan . . .” Caitlyn sobbed, and Logan bundled her close. “We’ll find her, Cait, I feel it in my bones, and she will be all right, trust me.”

  Trust him? Her heart lurched at the thought of Maddie in harm’s way, but oh, how she wanted to trust that Logan was right!

  No, trust Me. The thought, so soft and so still in the midst of her fear, immediately calmed like nothing ever could—not trust in the man who held her now or the protective warmth of his embrace. Her eyes sank closed as she exhaled a frail breath, knowing full well her trust would be far better spent in the hands of God rather than in the arms of Logan. Breathing in the sweet breath of hope, she gently pushed him away, palms resting on his gray silken waistcoat while she gazed into worried eyes very nearly the same color. “Logan, will you . . . pray with me?”

  ———

  Pray? He stared, prayer the very last thing on the long list of steps his proficient mind told him to do. He needed to grill the police for information and call in reinforcements to widen the search. There was Cait to settle down and an unsuspecting family who would soon walk in that door, devastated by the news that one of their own was missing. He had a house to tear apart, brick by brick if necessary, to find a little girl who held his heart in the very palm of her tiny hand—all the while his pulse pounded and sweat slicked the back of his collar. And Cait wanted him to pray? The man she accused in Napa of having little or no faith? And to the very God who’d denied his many pleas for a second chance with the woman who now invoked His name? He swallowed hard, recognizing that for all his valiant composure, it was Cait’s eyes that reflected a peace he desperately longed to have. Drawing in an unsteady breath, he gripped his hands over hers as they lay on his chest and gave a short nod.

  Her words seared him as much as the touch of her palms as she closed her eyes, brow furrowed in pain and tears glazing her skin. “Oh, God, our hearts are breaking—please keep Maddie safe and please help us to find her. We ask for Your guidance to where she might be and Your holy wisdom to know what to do. Please, God—bring her back to me—to us—please.”

  Head bowed, Logan spotted a surge of gray out of the corner of his eye when two uniformed officers appeared at the top of the staircase and made their way down . . . without Maddie. Squeezing Cait’s hand, he approached as they descended into the foyer, offering a handshake. “Gentlemen, I’m Logan McClare, Maddie’s uncle, and this is Caitlyn McClare, her mother. Have you uncovered anything to help us find her?”

  The officers shook Logan’s hand and apprised him of the little they knew about Maddie’s disappearance. With somber faces, they assured him they would file their report and requisition a foot search through adjoining neighborhoods once they interviewed the immediate neighbors.

  “Ma’am,” one officer said, addressing Caitlyn, “is your daughter prone to running away or ever leaving the house?”

  Caitlyn shuddered, and Logan shored her up with a protective arm around her back, causing her to lean into his embrace as if desperate for the strength he offered. “No, Officer,” she whispered, her voice steadier than her body, which trembled within his hold. “Maddie is only six and a good girl who has never caused us a moment of worry before this.”

  “Forgive me for asking this, Mrs. McClare,” the second officer said with a sobriety that quickened Logan’s pulse, “and please know Officer Brendan and I think it highly unlikely, but we need to ask if there might be any reason to believe your daughter could have been abducted. A threat against you or Supervisor McClare, perchance, or suspicion over anyone who may have visited your home recently—a repairman or neighbor or someone who had access to the house?”

  Caitlyn’s body seized at the mention of abduction, and Logan tightened his grip, speaking before Cait had the chance. “None that I’m aware of, officers, either for Mrs. McClare or myself, and I feel certain Caitlyn would have advised me of anything suspicious.”

  He felt Cait nod, and the officer exchanged glances with his partner. “Well, then, sir, ma’am, if you’ll excuse us, we’ll question a few neighbors and then check back before we file our report and organize a search.”

  “Certainly,” Logan said, voice crisp. “Thank you, Officers, for your time and your help.”

  “Not at all, sir.” Officer Brendan nodded before he and his partner departed.

  At the click of the door, Logan shielded Cait in his arms, resting his head against hers. His heart thudded at the prospect anyone might have actually kidnapped Maddie. Heaven knows as a key member of the Board of Supervisors, he’d made more than his fair share of enemies, but he refused to believe foul play was involved. “We need to search the house ourselves,” he whispered, and he felt her nod.

  The next half hour was the most excruciating of Logan’s life other than the deaths of his parents and brother and the day Cait broke their engagement a lifetime ago. Room by room they searched—together and apart—the frantic sound of Cait’s voice calling Maddie’s name echoing through the house like it echoed in his brain. When their search was done, he held her in the parlour while she wept, every fragile heave shredd
ing his heart.

  “Why don’t you drink some tea?” he whispered, stroking her hair like he’d longed to do for so many years. But not this way—not with their hearts raw with pain over the loss of a child so dear. He pulled away to cradle her tear-swollen face, grazing her jaw with his thumbs while he uttered the only words that came to mind. “We will find her, Cait,” he said quietly. “I know this because we prayed. And although God isn’t inclined to answer my prayers, you’re a woman of deep faith, so I have no doubt He will answer yours.”

  She blinked, his handkerchief limp in her hands as she stared, fresh moisture welling all over again. With a trembling hand, she gently palmed the scruff of his jaw, a thread of awe in her tone. “Oh, Logan,” she whispered, a single tear spilling into the curve of her mouth. “I never knew—you have faith in God after all, don’t you? Just not for yourself.”

  His breath hitched, the impact of her statement cold-cocking his heart. Although he’d never admit it to her, she’d been right in Napa to confront him about his lack of faith, implying it hadn’t been up to snuff. The truth was he didn’t know if it even existed anymore because he’d had a bone to pick with God for too many years now, and her name was Caitlyn McClare. The one woman he wanted more than any other and the one woman God wouldn’t let him have. Suddenly the realization that there was a flame of faith inside of him, no matter how frail or small, brought a measure of peace he never believed possible. A muscle convulsed in his throat over the very idea that yes, he actually did believe God would answer their prayers about Maddie, and the fact that this tiny seed of faith was based on God’s favor to Caitlyn rather than to him mattered not a whit. All that really mattered was that he, Logan McClare, possessed a belief in God of which he hadn’t been fully aware. And somehow in the deep recesses of his soul he knew—as sure as he knew he loved Caitlyn McClare—that where there was faith, there was the hope of answered prayer.

  In the midst of that very thought, his heart stopped cold, seizing his lungs at the very same time. With a harsh heave of his chest, he shot to his feet. “Sweet God in heaven, please . . .”