Rags To Riches Collection. Rebecca Winters

steps and pushed open the door. By the light of the single bulb he saw his mother cowering on the ragged sofa. Her thin face was splotched with red, her eye swollen with a fresh bruise. His father, a hulking man in a dirty undershirt, loomed over her, his hands clenched into fists.

      “Give me the money, bitch!” he snarled. “Give it to me now or you won’t walk out of this house!”

      “Don’t hurt her!” Wyatt sprang between them, pulling the two rumpled bills out of his pocket. “Here, I’ve got money! Take it and go!”

      “Out of my way, brat!” Cuffing Wyatt aside, he raised a fist to punch his wife again. Wyatt seized a light wooden chair. Swinging it with all his twelve-year-old strength, he struck his father on the side of the head.

      The blow couldn’t have done much damage. But it hurt enough to turn the man’s rage in a new direction. One kick from a heavy boot sent the boy sprawling. The last thing Wyatt remembered was the blistering whack of a belt on his body, and his mother’s screams....

      Forcing the images from his mind, Wyatt turned left at the intersection and followed the detour signs back to the main road. His father had taken the money that night. And while his mother rubbed salve on his welts, he’d vowed to her that he would change their lives. One day he’d be rich enough to buy her all the things she didn’t have now. And she would never have to change another bed or scrub another toilet again.

      He’d accomplished his goals and more. But his mother hadn’t lived to see his Olympic triumph or the successes that followed. She’d died of cancer while he was still in high school.

      His father had gone to prison for killing a man in a bar fight. Years later, still behind bars, he’d dropped dead from a heart attack.

      Wyatt had not attended the burial service.

      He’d put that whole life behind him—had made himself into a new man who was nothing at all like his dad.

      So why did he feel so lost when it came to dealing with his daughter?

      Not that he didn’t love Chloe. He’d never denied the girl anything that might make her happy. He’d been the best provider a man could be and not once—not ever—had he raised a hand against her. But now it slammed home that in spite of all the work he’d done and the things he’d bought, he still didn’t know the first thing about being a father.