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Is an independent cop the best family man?
Niall MacLachlan’s one priority is the law. He fought his way from the wrong side of the tracks to earn his badge and won’t jeopardize it for anything. After all, trusting his family nearly cost him everything as a kid. So, no. This loner has no desire for a wife and children to call his own.
So why is his entirely too attractive landlady, Rowan Staley, slipping past all his defenses? She and her young family—complete with noisy dog—are everything Niall thinks he doesn’t want. But he can’t keep his distance when she turns to him for protection from a neighborhood threat. And in the end, letting her go might be impossible.
Would a man who could be so gentle and patient hurt her?
Rowan stole a sidelong look at Niall. He hadn’t seemed interested in her that way at all, although a few times she’d seen flickers of expression that had made her wonder.
“What if I come with you Friday?” he asked.
“You’re serious.”
“I’m serious.”
Probably, she should make some polite disclaimer, but…he wouldn’t have offered if he hadn’t meant it, would he? “I would love it if you could come.”
“We’ll leave by 7:00 a.m.?”
“Ugh. Yes.”
He laughed. “Sleep tight.”
How wonderful it was to be smiling when she slipped back into the house. Feeling relief and joy and, yes, trepidation, because why was he being so nice? But, oh, she was so grateful that he was.
He was the kind of man she could—
No! Don’t even think it. Not happening.
But she still felt happy. And yes, Niall MacLachlan was the reason why.
Dear Reader,
When I first imagined a hero who played the bagpipe, I envisioned him in a kilt, the dagger thrust in his kneesock. I was influenced, I think, by the commonly known and melancholy history of the pipers stirring the Scots to fight and die at the Battle of Culloden in 1748.
What I didn’t know until I started doing some research was that the bagpipes have a far more ancient lineage than the eighteenth century. Ancient Greek writings dating to fifth century B.C. mention bagpipes. Emperor Nero of Rome may have played a form of bagpipe.
But maybe more significant, I hadn’t given a lot of thought to what the music sounds like. Or perhaps I had, and just didn’t know it. Because Niall MacLachlan was made to play the bagpipe. He mentions at one point playing the lament at a policeman’s funeral. The music he plays fits this man, expresses the hurt he’s held inside his whole life. He’s never admitted to himself how lonely he is, but he chooses to play music that will haunt the listener long after the bagpipe has fallen silent. He turns out to be an extraordinary man who has never dealt with childhood grief. This is one way he can express it while also holding on to one of his few good memories: his father teaching him to play the bagpipes.
Oh, I love heroes like Niall! And I love to torment them, too. I asked myself what kind of woman would be his worst nightmare, and there was Rowan—a young, single mother who is suddenly his landlady living in close proximity. A woman who has a good deal of pride but clearly needs help. Who brings with her two annoying kids and an even more annoying dog. Who steals his peace, and threatens the life he’s chosen for himself.
I hope you fall as deeply in love with Niall as I did.
Janice Kay Johnson
PS—I enjoy hearing from readers! Please contact me
c/o Harlequin Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road,
Don Mills, ON M3B 3K9, Canada.
From Father to Son
Janice Kay Johnson
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The author of more than sixty books for children and adults, Janice Kay Johnson writes Harlequin Superromance novels about love and family—about the way generations connect and the power our earliest experiences have on us throughout life. Her 2007 novel Snowbound won a RITA® Award from Romance Writers of America for Best Contemporary Series Romance. A former librarian, Janice raised two daughters in a small rural town north of Seattle, Washington. She loves to read and is an active volunteer and board member for Purrfect Pals, a no-kill cat shelter.
Contents
PROLOGUE
NIALL MACLACHLAN LAY on the narrow, hard bunk in his cell in the juvenile detention center and stared at the ceiling. This place was a shit hole. He was bored. He should’ve taken a book from the library cart in the rec room earlier. He hadn’t wanted to look like some kind of nerd, though, so he’d played ping pong and watched part of a Mariners game even though he thought baseball was a stupid sport. But now he was alone, even though there were two bunks. Eventually, if he stuck around, they’d throw someone else in with him. Other times he’d been in juvie, he’d had a roommate.
He couldn’t believe he was still here. He’d spent the past two days trying not to think about whether Mom really meant it when she’d told the cop that she was done with Niall and that he could rot in here as far as she was concerned. Other times, she or Dad had come and gotten him. Mom especially would rag on him, and he’d slump down in his seat and tune her out. Totally out. It wasn’t as if she’d actually do anything she threatened, like grounding him or curfews or forbidding him from seeing Tyler or Beck, who she said were bad influences on him. Niall smirked every time she said that. If anyone was the bad influence, it was him.
“And proud of it,” he said to the ceiling.
The words sounded braver than he