33 The Return of Bowie Bravo by Christine Rimmer

what you say to me ‘just comes out that way’?”
    She pushed the top rack in, bent and shut the dishwasher door. And then she grabbed a towel and dried her hands. “All right, I get that. I’ll…make a point not to give you such a bad time from now on.”
    “That would be good. Really good.”
    “And how about if I send Johnny out to you to say good-night—you know, before he goes to bed?”
    His slow smile did something scary to her heartstrings. “I would really appreciate that.” The smile vanished. “Not that he would come.”
    “Hey,” she softly advised, “don’t predict the worst, okay?”
    “You’re right. This is hard enough with a good attitude.”
    She laughed. “That’s the spirit.” Right then, the monitor on the sideboard erupted with fussy little whines.
    They were both silent, waiting. Sometimes Sera would whimper a little and go back to sleep.
    But she didn’t. The fussing got louder until it became out-and-out wailing.
    Bowie offered, “Want me to get her?” He looked hopeful.
    Glory wasn’t sure how she felt about the way he was with Sera. Until now, she’d just been resentful—of his presence in her house, of the way her newborn daughter had taken to him instantly and unconditionally. Because of what had happened in the past, she’d felt justified in her resentment. He’d been ready and willing to comfort her daughter from the very moment Sera was born. And yet Glory could count on one hand the number of times he’d held his own baby son in his arms. Also, it didn’t seem right that Matteo’s child seemed to like troublemaking Bowie Bravo more than she liked her own mother.
    Lighten up, Glory, she told herself. Again. “Sure, go get her. That would be great.”
    He turned and left the kitchen faster than Johnny had when she told him he could spend an hour with the Disney Channel.
    Progress.
    Bowie thought the word and smiled.
    It was later that night and he was out in the workshop, whittling away at his nice bit of basswood with a cozy fire going in the old parlor-style stove.
    He really was making progress. With Glory, at least. She’d been great during dinner. And with a little luck, her new attitude might even rub off on Johnny.
    Bowie set down his knife and sent a glance at the windup alarm clock on the rough pine shelf above the cot. It was after seven-thirty. She usually had Johnny in bed by eight or so, didn’t she? Did that mean he wasn’t coming after all?
    And if he wasn’t coming, was it because Glory hadn’t kept her word about sending him to say good-night? Or because when she asked him to, he’d refused?
    Bowie picked up the knife again and started working away at the wood. He shook his head as he whittled, feeling all nervous and edgy. Hoping the kid would come, afraid that he wouldn’t. Seriously, he needed to get hold of himself.
    What will happen, will happen, Wily would say. A man can help things along by taking action. But wishin’ and hopin’ never did make a single dream come true.
    Bowie looked at the clock again. Seven-thirty-eight. His stomach was tied in knots and his heart was a ball of lead in his chest.
    And then he heard the hesitant tap on the workshop door.
    His lead ball of a heart leaped to bouncing life. And he longed to jump to his feet and throw open the door.
    But instead, he forced himself to keep his eyes on his whittling. “It’s open,” he called in an easy voice that completely belied the churning excitement within him.
    He did look up then, wood and knife all but forgotten in his hands as the door slowly opened. Johnny was on the other side, wearing his winter jacket, a wool hat and flannel airplane pajamas tucked into his rubber boots. His dark eyes were steady and serious. An icy gust of wind blew in around him.
    Bowie gave him a couple of seconds to say something. When he didn’t, Bowie went for it. “Come on in. Shut the door. It’s freezing out there.”
    Johnny did as he was told, stepping inside and turning