“I just brought this dish back.” Her hair tumbled like the roses, and her face held a quiet glow. Being knocked-up looked good on her, he decided. “What are you doing up? I figured you’d all be down for the count after a night of female debauchery.”

“Habit, I guess. My body clock hasn’t switched to summer hours. Even with that, the boys are usually up by now.” She rubbed her belly. “These two are.”

The idea of a couple of entities rolling around in there made Ryder vaguely uneasy. “You should sit down.”

“Coffee first. Wonderful, warm, brain-clearing caffeine. I’m allowed one stingy cup a day.”

He tried to imagine getting through the day on one cup of coffee. It didn’t bear thinking about. “So sit. I’ll make it. I was thinking I’d grab some to take with me.”

Enjoying the idea of being served, she boosted onto one of the stools. “Thanks. It was nice of you and Owen to hang out with Beckett and the boys last night.”

“I got a meal out of it.” He glanced back at her as he started the coffee—Clare of the sunny hair, and the love of his brother’s life. “Your firstborn’s a killer at boxing.”

“And lets everyone know it. They love their Man Nights. Usually we coordinate them with book club night. When the twins are born I’ll take them with me, I think, so the tradition can continue until they’re old enough to join in.”

“Don’t trust Beck to ride herd on five?”

“He’s never started from the ground up. It’s a lot.”

“He’ll figure it out.”

“I know. He’s a wonderful father, just so natural and easy. He changed my life. I guess we changed each other’s.” She smiled as Ryder got a mug for her, a go-cup for himself. “The pie was good, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. It went fast.”

“Hope filled us in on Jonathan’s visit. I’m not naive. I know there are selfish, nasty people in the world. But it still surprises me he could treat her the way he has. The way he did.”

To Ryder’s mind, the giving and good-hearted were often outnumbered by the selfish and nasty. “He’s used to getting what he wants just by wanting it. That’s my take anyway.”

“I think you’re right. Hope deserves better. She always did.”

“Not a fan?”

“No. I mean, I barely know him, really, but I never liked him very much. Hope says it’s not like Sam.”

He thought of rushing into the bedroom of Clare’s little house down on Main Street, just after Beckett. Of seeing her, pale, dazed, swaying after that bastard Sam Freemont had been after her. And of Beckett pounding Sam’s face—after Clare had clocked him with the only weapon at hand: a damn hairbrush.