Father. There was that painful word again. Where had he been when her mother was working two jobs trying to raise an illegitimate daughter? Where had this wonderful “father” been during her growing-up years when she’d needed someone—anyone—to explain the complexities of the male of the species? Where had he been when she’d gotten married and had no one to give her away at the small wedding? What had he thought when she’d had children—his grandchildren?

John Cawthorne didn’t know the meaning of the word father. She doubted that he ever would. She curled the letter in her fist, felt the edge of one sheet cut into her finger and tossed the crumpled pages into a wastebasket near the back door. Why was she even thinking of the man?

Because in a few days it will be his wedding day.

So what? So he was finally marrying the woman he’d professed to love after all these years—a woman who had collected more husbands than most women had pairs of earrings.

As for her “sisters,” she wasn’t sure she had anything in common with either of them. Bliss was a few years younger than she. Just as she’d appeared today in the agency, Bliss seemed always to be a cool, sophisticated woman who had been born with the proverbial silver spoon firmly lodged between her teeth. She had always had John Cawthorne’s name; had never experienced the feelings of loneliness and despair at being poor or different from other kids who, even if their parents had divorced, knew who their father was. Tiffany was fairly certain she wouldn’t get along with Bliss Cawthorne.

As for her other half-sibling, Katie Kinkaid—well, Katie was a dynamo, a woman who was naive enough to think she could change the world by sheer willpower.

Tiffany had nothing in common with either of them. Not that she cared. She went upstairs, changed into jeans and a sleeveless blouse, scraped her hair back into a functional ponytail, then returned to the kitchen where she started unpacking the groceries. She was just about finished when she heard the sound of voices in the backyard. Folding the grocery sacks and placing them under the sink, she glanced through the window and spied Mrs. Ellingsworth carrying Christina toward the porch.

“Mommy!” the three-year-old cried as Tiffany opened the screen door. Christina scrambled out of the older woman’s arms and ran up the back steps.

“She’s plumb tuckered out,” Ellie said.

“Am not.” Christina yawned nonetheless and the corners of her mouth turned down.

“Well, I am. I wish I had half that kid’s energy.” Ellie mopped her brow as Tiffany held the door open and leaned down. Christina flew into her arms.

“We swinged and got on the merry-go-round,” she announced, her cheeks flushed.

“Did you?”

Ellie laughed as she stepped into the kitchen. “A few times.”