Riley blamed himself still. He feared he’d frightened her so badly that she’d fled in horror. Had he hurt her? She’d been so tight and so small. It was all he could do not to slam his fist into the wall every time he thought about their brief encounter, which was damn near every minute of every day. What had happened to her since? Was she sick? Alone? Frightened? Pregnant?

He’d been in control of their encounter until she’d kissed him. Now it was weeks later and he still reeled at the memory of the gentle, shy way in which she’d pressed her lips to his. He cursed how he could close his eyes and continue to taste her. How sweet she’d been. How warm and delicate. Her lips had molded to his, and her flavor reminded him of cotton candy. That alone was enough to torment him, but it wasn’t all. Her fragrance continued to obsess him. It wasn’t a commercial one he could name. The only way he could think to describe it was to imagine walking waist-deep in a field of wildflowers.

The woman had somersaulted into his life, sent his senses cartwheeling, and then, without a thought, without a care, had vanished, leaving him bitter and confused.

The hell with her, Riley decided rashly. He’d wasted enough time, energy and expense trying to find her. He’d return to his well-ordered life and forget her. Which was obviously what she intended to do with him.

If only he could forget her.

"Dad," Hannah pleaded softly, fighting to hold back a sob, "say something."

The truth was out, and Hannah hung her head waiting for the backlash of anger and disappointment. It was what she deserved and what she expected.

To her surprise, her father said nothing. He sat in the chair and stared into space, his face devoid of expression. Then he stood, laboriously, as if he were feeling old and beaten. Without a word he walked out the back door.

Tears filled Hannah’s eyes as her gaze followed him. He stood on the porch for several moments, his hand wrapped around the support beam, and stared into a cloudless October sky. Then, stepping off the porch, once again with slow and strained movements, he crossed the parsonage lawn and entered the old white church. Hannah sat at the kitchen table and gave him fifteen minutes before she followed him.

She found her father kneeling at the front of the church, before the altar, his head and shoulders slumped forward. Her heart constricted painfully at the sight of him there on his knees.

"Daddy," she whispered, speaking to him as she’d done as a frightened child. She was frightened. Not of what he’d say or of what he’d do, but because the circumstances surrounding this pregnancy were so complex.

George Raymond opened his eyes and straightened. Placing his hand on his knee, he rose awkwardly to his feet. His gaze rested on her, and she watched as his Adam’s apple moved up and down his throat while he struggled to restrain the emotion. He tried to smile, a weak attempt to comfort her, then took her hand and together they sat in the front pew.

Hot tears brimmed in Hannah’s eyes, threatening to spill over. The lump in her throat felt as large as a basketball, making swallowing nearly impossible. Her father had every right to be angry with her, to rage at her for her stupidity. What she’d done had been the height of irresponsibility. In her anguish she’d rebelled against everything she’d been raised to believe – an incredible departure from anything she’d ever done.

If she could offer any excuse, it was that she hadn’t been herself. The hours she’d spent with Riley had been the first in days, in weeks, in which she wasn’t suffocating in her grief. She’d reached out to him, a stranger, needing his touch, needing to be held and loved and protected. Needing a reprieve from her pain to ease the frustration of having been cheated from this experience with Jerry, the only man she’d ever truly loved.

She’d been despondent, and in her anguish she’d sought the comfort of a stranger. It had been sheer stupidity on her part. And now she was faced with the knowledge that the one major indiscretion of her life was about to bear fruit.

Even if she hadn’t gotten pregnant, even if she’d been able to bury the events of that night for what remained of her life, she had changed. Not only in the physical sense. It had taken her several weeks to realize the physical aspects of her experience were only a minor portion of their lovemaking. Her emotions had become involved. She didn’t know how to explain it or what to make of it. She’d assumed that once she left the hotel room, she’d never think of Riley again. But she did, almost constantly, against every dictate of her will.

"I’m sorry, Dad," she whispered brokenly. "So sorry."

Her father wrapped her gently in his arms. "I know, Hannah, I know."

"I was wrong---I was so angry at God for taking Jerry. I loved him so much."

With a tenderness that pitched knives at her heart, her father brushed the hair from her face. "I needed a few moments alone to think through this situation. I’ve been reminded that God doesn’t make mistakes. This child growing under your heart was planted there for a reason. I don’t know why any more than I understand the reason God took Jerry home. Nevertheless you are going to have a baby, and the only thing we can do is make the best of the situation."

Hannah nodded, not knowing what to say. She didn’t deserve so wonderful a father.

"I love you, Hannah. Yes, I’m hurt. Yes, I’m disappointed in your lack of judgment. But there is nothing you could ever do that would change my love for you or the fact you’re my daughter."

Hannah closed her eyes and breathed deeply, clinging to her father’s strength and his love.

"Now, tell me his name," he said, breaking away from her.

Keeping her gaze lowered, she whispered, "Riley Murdock… We met only once – the night of the torchlight parade. He’s in the Navy, but I don’t have a clue where he’s stationed." Finding him now would be impossible, which was just as well. Hannah didn’t want to think about what Riley would say or do once he found out she was carrying his child. Frankly, she wondered if he’d even remember her.

Her father gripped her hand in both his own, and once again Hannah noted how frail he looked. The lines around his eyes and mouth had formed into deep grooves and there was more gray than reddish brown in his thick thatch of hair. Funny how she hadn’t noticed that earlier. The changes had come since Jerry’s death, but she’d been so consumed by pain and uncertainty that she hadn’t noticed he’d been dealing with his own grief.

"The first thing we have to do," he said gently, "is make a doctor’s appointment for you. I’m sure Doc Hanson will be able to see you first thing Monday morning. I’ll give him a call myself."

Hannah nodded. Unwilling to face the truth, she’d delayed contacting a physician longer than she should have. Doc Hanson was a friend of the family and could be trusted to be discreet.

"Then," Hannah told him, drawing in a deep sigh, "we’ll need to decide where I should go."

"Go?" Her father’s dear face darkened, the age lines becoming even more pronounced.

"I won’t be able to continue living here," she said, her tone weary. She wasn’t thinking of herself, but of her father and of Jerry’s memory.

"But why, Hannah?"

She inhaled deeply. "Everyone will assume the child is Jerry’s." With everything in her heart she wished her fiancé had fathered her child, but she had to deal with the cold, harsh facts. Riley Murdock – a stranger from the Seattle waterfront – was the father. Although it was tempting, very tempting, to allow her church family and friends to believe she carried Jerry’s child, she couldn’t have lived with the lie. Not when he’d always been so morally upright.

"We’ll simply explain to everyone that the child isn’t Jerry’s," her father stated with one hard nod of his head, as if that alone would set everything right.

"Do you honestly think the congregation will believe me?" she asked him, the words tight in her throat. "I have to leave, Dad," she said firmly, unwilling to compromise.

For her father’s sake she must leave Seattle. He’d been such a loving and kind parent, and there were sure to be those in the church who would malign him for her wrongdoings. There would be an equal number who would stand beside them both with loving support, but Hannah couldn’t bear to see her father suffer because of her mistakes.

"I’ll go live with Aunt Helen until after the baby’s born…."

"And then what?" her father demanded, sounding uncharacteristically alarmed.

"I… don’t know. I’ll cross that bridge when I reach it." So many questions and concerns were coming at her, like a spray of rocks from a speeding car. Hannah didn’t feel capable of fending off a single one, at least not now.

"We don’t need to decide anything yet," he assured her after a moment. But he wore a thoughtful frown as they walked back to the house, where Hannah had left dinner simmering.

The frown didn’t seem to leave her father’s features from that moment forward. Hannah had been in to see Doc Hanson, who confirmed what she already knew. He ran a series of tests and prescribed iron tablets and vitamins because she was anemic. He’d been gentle and kind and didn’t ply her with questions, for which she was grateful.

It was Friday afternoon nearly two weeks after Hannah had first told her father about the pregnancy. Exhausted from her day’s work as an underwriting assistant for a major insurance company, she walked into the house and discovered her father waiting for her in the living room. He sat in his favorite chair, his hands curved around the faded upholstered arms, his gaze fixed straight ahead. Hannah called it his "thinking chair." To discover him resting in the middle of the afternoon was highly unusual.

"Good afternoon, Dad," she greeted with a smile, and walked across the worn beige carpet to kiss his weathered cheek. "Is everything all right?"

"If s just fine," he said, returning her smile with an absent one of his own. "Keep your coat on. We’re going out."

"We are?" Offhand, Hannah couldn’t think of any appointment she’d made. Only infrequently did she accompany her father on house calls, and those were generally scheduled for Tuesday and Thursday evenings. George Raymond made it a point to visit every family in his congregation at least once a year.

His hand protectively cupped her elbow as he led her out the front door and down the steps. The station wagon was parked in the driveway.

"Where are we going?" Hannah questioned. Rarely had she seen her father look more resolute. It was as if he were marching with Joshua, preparing to face the walls of Jericho.

When he didn’t answer, she assumed he hadn’t heard her and she repeated the question. That, too, was ignored.

He drove silently for several minutes before he reached the freeway, and then he headed south toward Tacoma. The car was warm, and although she was curious as to what was happening, Hannah soon found her eyes drifting closed. Her head bobbed a couple of times as she struggled to remain awake. If only she’d get over this depressing need for extra sleep. It seemed she couldn’t last through the day without napping. Lately she’d taken to heading for bed nearly as soon as she’d finished the dinner dishes. She shifted positions and opened her eyes when they crossed the Narrows Bridge and headed toward the Kitsap Peninsula.