Mateo didn’t want to love again. Or trust. He’d lost too much in his young life. He had nightmares almost every night, and it was almost impossible to comfort him. Conner knew the leopard in the boy was close, trying to protect him with the sheer force of anger, building a wall around the boy. He didn’t know how to bring that wall down.

“It will work out,” Rio said softly.

Conner shook his head and began the slow, rather humbling journey, limping across the yard to Isabeau and Mateo. He had to keep reaching out, hoping to find a way to the reach the boy—to let him know he understood and that the child could count on him to see him through the coming years.

Mateo didn’t turn his head, but by the slight stiffening of his body, Conner knew he was acutely aware of him. A shadow slid over the boy’s face as he approached. He felt the hesitation. Should he disturb them? Leave them alone to let the boy have a little peace? Or should he continue to try to insert himself into the boy’s life? How did his mother always seem to know the right thing to do? Isabeau had finally gotten Mateo to hold her hand; maybe this was the wrong time.

Before he could turn away, Isabeau halted, the boy’s hand firmly in hers. “You look so sad, Conner.”

Isabeau. Sweet Isabeau. She was giving him an opening. Willing him to be strong enough to talk about his mother to the child. She had brought up the subject late in the night, while lying in bed, holding him close. She thought the darkness would help him cope better, but he couldn’t talk about his mother or her death. Tears had threatened to choke him. He wasn’t the kind of man to talk about things like losing one’s mother. He didn’t cry. He didn’t acknowledge pain if he could help it. Yet Isabeau was convinced that if he could let down his guard, it would allow the boy to do the same.

Mateo’s expression was closed off, yet so very vulnerable. Conner was a man, and Mateo expected rejection from Conner. Those eyes. He looked at those every day in the mirror. So much pain. So much rage. So much vulnerability.

You’re like her. Your mother. Not like him. Isabeau’s soft words from the night before reverberated through his mind. You’re like her. She left you such a wonderful legacy, Conner. She taught you what love really means.